Mister Masen, Assistant Headmaster
by edwardian1901
Summary: "Hello. My name is Edward Masen, and I like to spank little girls." The new assistant headmaster at a prestigious girls' academy in Washington State has a dark secret. Warning: mature themes, nonconsensual spanking of minors, and more. AH/AU, ExB, Rated M for adult activities and language.
1. Chapter 1

AN: This is shameful. And it will get worse. Proceed with caution.

Characters are not mine. Plot is fictional. St. Anne's Bellemount Academy in Forks, WA, is a figment of my imagination.

Happy birthday, Edward Cullen. This is for you.

* * *

Hello.

My name is Edward Masen, and I like to spank little girls.

No. Wait. God, that's _too_ honest, and it sounds… Well, let me start over and explain. *clears throat*

Hello. My name is Edward Masen, and I'm the assistant headmaster at St. Anne's Bellemount in Forks, Washington (that's a small logging town on the Olympic Peninsula). It's a private academy for girls, ninth through twelfth grades. This position—a new capacity for the school—includes various responsibilities. Chiefly I am the liaison for the "head" headmaster and his staff, teachers, students, and parents … while he deals with the board of trustees and superior matters such as funding and curriculum. I see to it that the headmaster's directives are communicated, and in return, I take the rank-and-file concerns and requests to Dr. Cullen. I am also responsible for carrying out most of the school policies as they pertain to our students and staff—this includes our disciplinary code.

Three years ago, I was enrolled at General Theological Seminary in New York City, pursuing my M. Div. with a concentration in music. Two semesters in I realized that although my passion was composition and performance, I didn't particularly need a degree to tell me that. Now music will always be there for me, as my escape and my rapture, but I didn't necessarily want it to be my job. I'd been teaching piano lessons on the side for a couple of coeds, and I even served as an assistant instructor for "Introduction to Music," and so I deviated in my course selection to emphasize ministry leadership and education. I chose placements that focused on school administration, and, fortunately, as I was finishing my requirements and ready to receive my master's, this post opened up and I interviewed for it.

When I was offered the job last summer, I moved to Forks and away from my girlfriend of two years, Tanya, who is still in New York chasing her stage dream. This basically means that she works in a coffee shop in between auditions and filming the rare commercial. These days the long-distance dynamic is working well for us. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, as they say, and we see this relocation as temporary. Tanya is attractive and smart … and quite a handful, especially when she gets with her sisters … well, it gets to be a bit much. Skype communication is fine with me. Yeah, I miss the sex, but that's what showers are for. We'll be fine.

Dr. Carlisle Cullen is my boss and the headmaster at St. Anne's. He and I work closely to ensure the school's reputation for excellency and tradition, which is long-standing in the community. Eighty percent of our student body are boarders, mostly from the Pacific Northwest, but we also host a small percentage from varied parts of the country, as well as Canadians and other international students. As such—excepting summers and holidays—we are liable for the girls' well-being after classes end. Dr. Cullen emphasizes in his welcome speech that, even though Mother might be hours away, her daughter will be well cared for and looked after in every aspect by the staff. The fact is that when kids live away from their families, they tend to grow up fast. If we don't keep a tight rein during that transition, the result can be disastrous. So we don't put up with any foolishness or rebellion. As the student grows older, she gradually achieves greater freedom, which is also contingent on her behavior. In this way, we strive to build character, so that by the time a St. Anne's student graduates from high school, whether she lived with us or commuted, she is a mature, knowledgeable, and self-supporting young woman.

Now that you understand that I am competent and that I do take my job seriously, I will tell you about my other penchant … I mean besides music and teaching and showers.

But first I need to see what Esme wants…

"Yes, Ms. Platt?"

"Mr. Masen, Rosalie Hale is waiting to see you."

Rosalie is Dr. Cullen's sister's daughter. She's a senior and a first-rate bitch, to put it bluntly. However, Miss Hale and I have an understanding … or at least I suspect we do. She seems to know exactly how much she can get away with before I am forced to take drastic measures. Well, she's been a student here for four years and knows the ropes, probably better than I do. Still, I am reaching the limits of my patience with her game.

"Mrs. Cope sent a form."

I take the yellow paper from Esme's hand and smile at her. "Thank you, Ms. Platt. I'll see her now."

"Yes, Mr. Masen." She mouths, "Good luck, Edward," to me before she turns to go.

I unfold the note and quickly decipher the checked box and hasty note Mrs. Cope left me in the comment section.

When Rose comes in, nose in the air like a Hilton heiress, I grin in welcome. She smiles back smugly.

"Come in and take a seat, please."

She doesn't speak but sits daintily as I asked, looking amused by her new surroundings.

"So, Miss Hale… This is your second visit in two weeks. Not that it isn't a delight to see you always, but what I hear about you isn't so flattering. Mrs. Cope says you were disrespectful to her during class."

Rose flips a blonde sheet of hair back over her shoulder and smiles reassuringly.

"Sir, Mrs. Cope is a bit too sensitive about her weight. She took what I said the wrong way."

I nod. "Most women, no matter their size, are sensitive in that way. Nevertheless, Miss Hale, it's your responsibility to stay out of my office, and you've failed to do that. Last week, I called your mother, and she wasn't very happy to hear from me. I would hate to have to notify her again of your behavior."

Rosalie isn't looking too concerned.

"Perhaps, though, I ought forgo the phone call and instead ask your uncle in to discuss this incident."

I know that prospect worries her. As much as she tries to hide her unease, I see the small shift she makes in her seat. I'm very good at reading body language.

She recovers easily and bats her eyelashes. She's almost as good as I am at this. "That won't be necessary. I'll be better, Mr. Masen. I promise."

"Good." I smile. "For the next week, your curfew is docked. You will be confined to your room after the evening meal is ended. As you are aware, if there are any more of these yellow forms from any of your teachers during the next month, we upgrade to corporal punishment. And I know you don't want that. I will be mentioning these two offenses to Dr. Cullen, so I'm sure you can expect a word from him."

Rosalie glares nastily at me. "And how you do you know that my uncle won't be cross with _you?_"

I want nothing more at this moment than to take her over my knee and make the shade of her pert bottom match her name—not for any indulgence on my part but because I'm annoyed. Damn the procedures. I rub my palm on my thigh.

"Be sure to report to your RA at 7 p.m. tonight and every night this week. Thank you, Miss Hale. That will be all."

She's up from her chair and spins so briskly to leave that her school-regulation kilt billows, and I glimpse a line of black panties. She almost runs into Esme, who stands in the doorway.

"Mr. Masen, I forgot to tell you that we have a new student today." She brings me yet another form.

I flick through the enrollment papers. "Police Chief Swan's daughter from Phoenix," I mutter.

"Yes, Isabella. It's her first day. She's in the eleventh grade."

I'd met Charlie Swan before, but not Isabella. Dr. Cullen did the new student interviews.

"All right. Thank you, Ms. Platt. I'll see if I can find her and give an official St. Anne's welcome." I peruse the girl's class schedule.

"That would be very hospitable of you."

I like Esme a lot. I can tell she would do anything for me. Not that she's got a crush on me or anything, but I sense a platonic affection, and that's much appreciated since I'm all on my lonesome out here in the gloomy western wilderness.

Okay. Back to the reason for this confession. So in case you missed it the first time, here it is again: I am a monster—a dark creature with dark thoughts. A predator in a necktie and Vans.

I like to spank little girls.

Did you catch that (and all its implications)? Not only is it my _job_, but I _like_ to. It occupies my thoughts when I'm walking around campus or assisting in a class. I imagine it while I meet with a student about their course requirements. And during any lulls in my day, it's all I can think about.

So, there it is. It's a problem. Yeah, I've known about this predisposition for a long time, and I'll tell you about that history later. But the truth remains that I am the assistant headmaster at a distinguished private school for girls and I get paid to act out my sick fantasy. Furthermore, what happens in my office is later played out in my head, stuck on repeat, day after day after day.

Now most of you must be thinking that it's sick. I'm a pervert. It's appalling that a school administrator would enjoy spanking minors. It is. It's deplorable. I _am_ sick and perverted. You might tell me to restrict that kind of fantasy to the bedroom I share with my girlfriend. I'll tell you right now that—her being on the other coast aside—Tanya is _not_ into spanking play. At all. Once I smacked her ass and she turned around and punched me in the gut.

Others of you, if you keep an open mind and loose ethics, might say I've got the ideal job to suit my proclivities. I would also agree. Although I despise myself for it when I actually push the pause button on my deviant thought life to self-examine.

Let me assure both extremes—the self-righteous and the liberal—right now that I don't act on these urges … unless it's within guidelines.

You see, each boarding student falls within the limits of the code that allows me, under certain circumstances, to physically punish her when she breaks a rule. This is fortunate, too, because most of our boarders are spoiled rotten rich girls (i.e., Rosalie Hale). Over the last four months, I've managed to exercise my authority a good deal. Now I know I said that I like to spank _little_ girls, but I don't really mean it like that. Though they're all little girls to me, I prefer those on the cusp of womanhood—not any gangly, whiny children. To feed my compulsion, I've got a handful of high-schoolers who visit me on occasion. However, I'm sorry to say, I am growing bored. These "regulars" would be the bad girls. I'm not really interested in bad girls. The bad girls don't care. They endure punishment, and although it is uncomfortable, they stoically persist so they can escape my clutches to sneak their next cigarette.

It's the good girls I'm partial to. The girls who don't want to be in trouble, but somehow have ended up in my office. They cry, they apologize, they fret … they squirm. And I like it.

Take Alice Brandon, for instance. She's a resident student from Mississippi, who can't stop talking. She's as sweet as pie, as they say in the South, but she can't shut her mouth for all the shoes in the world. (She's also got a thing for fashion and a liberal allowance to suit it.) Alice is in here for the third strike by the end of every week like clockwork.

For our local students, however, it is up to the parents to decide whether or not to sign the disclaimer. Most don't. In those cases, I call the parent and a mother or father must come collect the miscreant from school. I've learned in the few months I've been here that certain families simply prefer to do their own smacking, and as such they are welcome to use my digs for those purposes. (This was surprising to me, too.) In such cases, I like to listen.

Suddenly curious, I flip through the pages of Miss Swan's records. Hm. What do you know? Her father signed. _Charlie Swan._ Well, I guess it's not too shocking that the town's chief of police would allow his daughter to potentially taste the brand of consequences laid out by the school.

Let's see… She's on scholarship. Not exactly a townie, since she's lived with her mother in Arizona her whole life. Scottsdale city schools, but she was in AP classes. Never any trouble. She ought to do well here. No athletics or other extracurricular activities. Well, she'll have to attend physical education class, but since she'll be living at home I can't require her to join a club or a sport.

I check my watch. Isabella will be heading to lunch when the bell rings. I decide to scope it out and make my way to the wing where Jasper Whitlock teaches World History. I watch through the door window as he smoothly delivers a lecture about Renaissance art.

"How many of you have been to Florence, Italy?" Jasper asks in his Texas drawl. A couple of hands rise. "I'm assuming you saw Michelangelo's _David?_"

They nod. Jasper clicks a button on a remote and a PowerPoint slide changes on the screen in front of the classroom to show a vast light-filled room with the famous marble figure standing at the end of a long corridor. It's a bit fuzzy there in the background, which blurs the finer points of young David's anatomy.

"Now I don't think you can actually fathom the size of this joe until you meet him in person. He's—"

"Mr. Whitlock, is he naked?" a student inquires.

Honestly? Who doesn't know that the _David_ is naked?

"Yes, he's naked," Jasper answers hastily before continuing his last thought, stretching his arms as wide as they go. "He's huge!"

The girls gasp and snicker.

"Mr. Whitlock!" someone scolds.

"Now, you know I mean his height. He's _tall_, not—well, you know, well-endowed…"

I'm doubled over in laughter. Jazz pulled that off without breaking a sweat. Composing myself barely, I listen for a couple more minutes and notice little Alice chatting to her neighbor. I don't recognize the girl, and I assume this is Chief Swan's daughter. Jasper notices the interruption, too.

"Miss Brandon, I have asked you twice now to hold your comments."

"Oh, yes, sir. I know. I'm sorry." She makes pitiful eyes at him.

"I know you're sorry, honey, but I'm going to have to fill out a yellow paper."

"Oh, oh, please, Mr. Whitlock! I promise not to talk anymore. I'm turning over a new leaf. Really! You can believe me!"

"I'm pleased to hear it. Now show me that you mean it."

She covers her mouth with her hand and nods with a wide-eyed, sincere expression. She regards Jasper like he's untied her from the railroad tracks moments before the train thunders by.

I shake my head and the bell rings. Stepping aside, I watch the door open and students exit. Near the back of the line is Alice talking ninety miles an hour to Isabella.

"And, Bella, you _must_ let me to do your hair and makeup. Your skin is so gorgeous! Can you stay after today? You can come to my dorm for—"

Alice suddenly catches my gaze and freezes. Isabella stares at her, confused.

"Mr. Masen. Did you see me in there?"

"I'm afraid I did, Miss Brandon."

She gulps, while Isabella glances first at me and then at her feet, a red flush creeping up her face.

"It's all right," I assure Alice, for her new friend's sake, "if Mr. Whitlock can overlook it this time, so can I."

Alice lets out a big breath, and the strangest thing happens. I swear to God, Isabella trips. She's just standing there, not even walking … and then, she falls. Her face comes this close to smacking the floor. I hurry to help her up, and as I support her by the arms, I notice how lovely she is. Dark hair, pale complexion, a small mouth with full lips, and the most delicious blush. Her figure is slight, but not as petite as Alice.

"Miss Swan?"

"Yes," she says, flustered.

"I'm Mr. Masen, the assistant headmaster. I came to introduce myself."

"Uh … hi." She takes the backpack that Alice thrusts at her and tucks her hair back behind her ear.

"I wanted to welcome you to St. Anne's Bellemount properly, but I'm a bit worried now. Do you need to go to the nurse? I'll take you, and I can write an excuse note for the class after lunch."

She isn't looking at me, which is disappointing. I want to study those big brown eyes.

"No, no. I'm fine. I just tripped."

Alice giggles. "Over what?"

I question her. "Are you sure you aren't running a fever? You turned red suddenly and now you're white as a sheet. You don't feel faint—"

"No." She takes a breath, like she's trying to swallow frustration. "Like I said, I'm fine."

If I didn't know any better, I'd say the little Swan is getting irritated with me. I don't know whether to be amused or cross.

"Maybe you'll feel better after you've eaten," I suggest.

"Yes, I'm sure that's what it is," she says begrudgingly.

Hmm. Her manners are not up to scratch. That's one way to tell a rich kid; she may be conceited, but her etiquette is flawless. Clearly Isabella Swan hasn't attended charm school.

"Pleasure to meet you, Miss Swan." I hold out my hand.

She shakes it while biting her lip, not saying a word.

"Enjoy your lunch, girls," I say, raising an eyebrow, still waiting for a response from Isabella. I begin to imagine how she would feel tucked against me, facedown over my knee.

"Bye, sir," chirps Alice pleasantly.

"Miss Brandon."

Why won't Isabella talk to me? I really don't appreciate—and I certainly don't deserve—her sullen reserve.

"Masen!" This is Jasper. "You goin' to the chow hall?"

We bump fists—antiquated, I know, but Jasper's kind of old-fashioned.

"Whitlock, that was an illuminating lesson. Thanks for the visual." I add my own version of the "He's huge!" charade with my arms spread.

We get our meal cards punched and collect our lunches. Emmett, aka Coach McCarty, is already at our regular table eating from two trays.

"What's going on, Em?" Jasper greets as he loosens his tie.

We can't understand our friend through his mouthful of food. We assume that he's doing well, since he's perpetually lighthearted. Probably because he gets to wear track pants to work. Emmett teaches physical education at St. Anne's and coaches most of our athletic sports, including our nationally recognized girls lacrosse team.

"How's it hangin'?" Emmett asks after a substantial swallow.

Jasper relays the _David_ debacle from his class and we share another chuckle.

"That was fierce." Emmett snorts. "I swear, it takes bigger balls than that stone giant's got to teach girls."

"By the way, Jazz," I start, "how often do you let Alice Brandon off the hook?"

He looks sheepish. "I got a soft spot for the gal," he admits.

"You're not giving her any incentive to behave, you know." My voice is not accusatory; I completely understand how hard it is to be stern with her.

"Her jabber might be as annoying as two jays squawkin' before sunrise, but then she gives you that look, you know."

"What look is that?" Em asks mockingly; he cocks his head and clasps his hands under his cheek.

"Like a kitten you're set to drown. It gets me every time."

"Pushover!"

"I'm not really. It's just with Alice. Besides, it doesn't matter if I'm tough on her or not, she's goin' to get her tail busted anyway. Giving her a talking-to or handing out a consequence changes her act for maybe two minutes. All of it's like spittin' in the ocean and expecting the tide to rise. She'll do what she does despite all that."

I glance over my shoulder and see Alice at a table with Isabella and a couple of other girls. They are looking this way, until I meet Isabella's gaze. Then she drops her head, letting her hair hang in her face and the other girls look away, giggling.

"For all the write-ups in her record, I really don't mind Alice at all," I say. "She's not mean or disrespectful. Just … over-enthusiastic. That's not such a bad character trait. It's that Rosalie Hale—"

"Don't you talk bad about my Rose," Emmett retorts.

"She's cunning and aggressive."

"Which is what makes her my star field hockey forward."

"Well, she's going to be missing practice this week."

"What! Damn you, Masen."

"Sorry, big guy. She broke the rules. Mrs. Cope wrote her up this morning, and Carmen turned her in last week. Besides, it's January. It's too cold and wet to practice."

"I work them out in other ways," Em says before taking a huge bite of a tuna sub.

"Dude, that sounded sick."

Emmett laughs.

"I've had Rosalie in class since American History when she was in ninth grade. Her attacks are so subtle you almost miss them. She seems fit to be tied about something."

Emmett glares at Jasper. "_Again_, this is why she makes such a great field hockey player!"

"I told her I would be mentioning it to Carlisle. Do you think he'll appreciate the heads up, or will he get defensive?"

"Oh, he'll want to know," Jasper tells me. "Whenever I've had it up to here with Miss Hale, he's been sorry to hear about it, but eager to mend the problem, if you catch my drift. She won't sit so pretty for a day, but at least you won't have to do it."

"Really?"

Now this surprises me. Carlisle strikes me as the bleeding-heart type. I had guessed that one of the reasons I have a job is because he can't face having to punish the girls. He's strict, but also exceptionally compassionate. Now I understand why Rosalie is nervous about her uncle's intervention.

"Yeah, do that," Em concedes. "Anything but get her kicked off the team. She needs an outlet for all that … tenacity."

I stand up with my tray. "Listen, I'm going to go check on the new student before the bell rings. She almost passed out in the hall."

"Who is she?" Emmett asks.

"Charlie Swan's daughter from Arizona," Jazz answers.

"Oh, yeah. Chief Swan. You got history with him, don't you, Edward?"

"Apparently he doesn't like the way I drive," I muse, rolling my eyes.

"I wonder why not…" Emmett laughs.

As I approach the table behind Jessica Stanley, I hear her intoning in a sultry voice, "Mr. Masen, I'm here for my spanking."

The other girls look horrified and Jessica notices. "He's standing behind me, isn't he?"

Alice grimaces and nods.

Jessica turns slowly. "Did you happen to hear that, sir?"

"I'm going to pretend that I didn't."

"Oh, okay," she laughs nervously. Jessica has no idea what she's done to me with that initial comment. And she's too stupid to be embarrassed. For all the prestige of St. Anne's Bellemount, you don't necessarily have to be intelligent to get in, only wealthy enough to cover the tuition.

Lauren is trying to stealthily hide something in her school jacket, but I'm not distracted.

"I'll take that, please." I hold out my hand.

She huffs and surrenders the iPod.

"You can come get it from my office on Friday afternoon. Miss Swan, I wanted to check on you. Feeling better?"

Her eyes meet mine for a split second. "Yeah, I am."

"You didn't eat much…" She's got food on her tray, but she's hardly touched any of it.

"I think my stomach is upset."

"What class do you have next?"

"Biology."

"Okay, I'll write you a note and you can go to the nurse."

"No! I don't need to. I _want_ to go to Biology."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I'm feeling much better. Only a little queasy." That blush is back.

"Well, all right. You girls take care of Isabella for me," I say to the table.

"Yes, sir," agrees Alice. "See! I knew I didn't bring these extra pair of shoes for nothing. Here, Bella. You need a bit of height to help with the nausea, and this heel will…" With that, I walk away. I'm not feeling charitable enough to save her from Miss Brandon's tyranny.

I run into Dr. Cullen once I reach the administration offices. He usually eats lunch at his residence, which is on campus.

"Edward, I have a moment before I go meet with the fundraising chairperson. Do you have anything to report in the meantime?" He speaks with an indistinct English accent.

"Yes, sir, I do."

"Come into my office then." He flashes me a warm smile.

I'm very fond of Carlisle and any chance to be with him produces both gladness and anxiety. The anxiety is because I want to do well for him. When you've pleased him, he makes you feel … essential—like how did he ever live without you. He's insightful and good-hearted, too; he makes you want to be like him. Even though there isn't a great difference in our ages, he's become quite like a father figure to me since I've come here.

"Thank you, sir."

"New student today," he begins.

"That's right. I met her before lunch. She seems a bit socially awkward to me. Very shy." Downright rude, if I'm being honest.

"Hm? When I met with her and her father, she was demure but well mannered."

"Maybe it's just me then. I was worried that she was getting sick, because she fell in the hall, but now I think it's just nerves."

"Are the girls being kind to her?"

"As far as I can tell, a decent group of eleventh graders have taken her under wing."

"Grand. Keep an eye on her."

"I will, sir. Oh, and speaking of not feeling well, the nurse and one of our teachers has brought it to my attention that Angela Webber seems to not be eating. This has been going on for some months."

Carlisle sighs. "All right. What does the nurse recommend?"

"I'm going to call the Webbers this evening. I think we might be looking at an intervention. Her weight's dropped drastically since she came back from Christmas holiday and Charlotte can't find any physiological reason for it."

He nods. "Well, we've seen this before…"

"Yes. I'll take the next steps and keep you informed."

"Please. Is there anything else?"

"Uh, yeah. I saw Rosalie in my office today."

A peculiar mixture of consternation and mirth crosses his face. "Bugger. What's she done now?"

"I only mention it because she apparently said something derogatory about Mrs. Cope's weight today, and last week she mouthed off to Mrs. Rios."

He covered his eyes with his palm. "I may have to call her parents."

I don't want to push this problem off on him, but I worry that Rosalie might try to set her uncle against me if I handle her in a way she doesn't approve. Carlisle is savvy, but the girl is his niece and a certain amount of clout comes naturally with a family tie.

I clear my throat. "I already spoke with her mother, sir. Last week. This kind of understated misbehavior has been going on since September. To be honest, sir, I think Rosalie is trying to challenge me. She wants to see how far she can push."

"That certainly does sound like Rosalie and I wouldn't put it past her. Edward, I'm so sorry. And I'll see what I can do to make it up to Mrs. Cope."

"I tightened her curfew for the week."

"Very good. I'll speak to her this evening after supper and then send her straight to her room."

"Thank you."

"I can't say that I'll be sorry to see her graduate, Edward. But that's just between you and me."

"It's our secret, sir."

So now I will have to find a way to stretch my work until after seven. I do not want to miss my chance of overhearing Rosalie's well-deserved comeuppance tonight.

Well, when you can't do the deed yourself…


	2. Chapter 2

I leave Dr. Cullen's and head back to my office, taking Lauren's iPod out of my pocket and sticking the right earphone to my ear. When I push play, a troupe of girls—who don't speak English, if I'm hearing it right—chant, "I crashed my car into the bridge. I don't care! I love it!"

_What a ridiculous thing to sing,_ I think critically. _This is what kids listen to?_ As soon as that thought passes, however, I wonder when I became so _old_. I skip to the next song. It's another girl singing _another_ set of stupid lyrics: "Let's make the most of the night like we're gonna die young!"

Then I realize that I can't help but like the sound of these songs. Despite my musical training and predilection for all things AC/DC, I start bouncing around the room, backwards on one foot, jamming and rocking my head to the beat.

Since I rarely close to door to my office, Esme catches me and laughs.

I cough and jerk the earphone out. "Uh, yes, Ms. Platt," I say, mock-serious. "I'm schooling myself in mainstream culture, as should you. We need to be able to relate to the young women in our care. Send out a memo to the staff. And I want you right away to order a copy of those popular vampire books that Mormon woman wrote." After that, I can't keep a straight face.

Esme giggles. "I'm sure we have several sets already in the library."

I rub my smile away. "Then I'll be checking out a copy tomorrow. Required reading."

* * *

As it turns out, I don't have to find ways to stretch my workday. After amusing myself and Esme with the dancing, I telephone Angela Webber's family. Her mother sobs when I tell her what the school nurse, Charlotte, said about Angela's weight, and so I don't feel right about keeping it strictly business. I let her cry it out, try to be encouraging, and together we organize a plan. Well, it was mostly me doing the plotting, but Mrs. Webber agrees tearfully to my proposed course of action. It takes another hour to schedule the intervention. The Webbers will be flying in from the East Coast next week, and we will meet with Angela, Charlotte, our chaplain (who doubles as school counselor), a nutritionist, and a therapist who specializes in eating disorders.

Then I follow up about Rosalie with Mrs. Cope before she leaves for the day. I assure Shelly that Rose will be taken care of; and if she doesn't see a change in behavior, I want to know about it.

I'm getting ready to go to the dining hall for dinner, mainly because I want to watch Rosalie Hale's face, since I'm sure by now she knows that her uncle wants to see her privately.

My desk phone rings, interrupting my plans.

"Edward Masen."

"Edward, it's your mother."

Ah. She caught me. I'm fucked.

My smother—I mean _mother_—only calls me to (1) meddle in my life or (2) tell me what to do with my life.

"Hello, Mother. How are you?"

She doesn't bother to answer that. "I tried your home first, but you weren't there."

"Because I'm _here_."

"I tried to reach you several times over the weekend."

"It's been busy at school. Are you well?"

Again, she doesn't answer. I don't think my mother has ever been "well."

"I wanted to see how you were getting along out there. How are the girls?"

When she says "girls" it sounds like "gulls." _"How are the gulls?"_ My mother was not born rich, but she's made up for that with myriad pretensions. Now that she _is_ rich, she fits right in with Chicago's affluent.

"The girls are keeping me on my toes. Is Dad there?"

"No. Mr. Masen is still at work, but we're meeting him for a late dinner at Clyde's." Another affectation: she never calls my father by his given name—maybe because it's my name too? I don't know, I never bothered to ask—always Masen or Mr. Masen.

Edward Senior, my old man, has made a fortune defending the hospitals in the Chicago metropolitan area from malpractice suits. And yet he still drives around in a rusty blue VW Beetle, his beloved first car. An old hippie with too long a combover, who prefers baggy jeans to a suit, he doesn't quite play the part that my mother requires. Although I hate the old Bug, I do respect my father for his eccentricity—_especially_ because it annoys my mother.

"How are Seth and Nessie?" I ask. My siblings—twins—are twelve years younger. A surprise pregnancy is what my folks said—although I have trouble believing it, since my mother controls _everything_—supposedly conceived during a holiday in Scotland, thus my sister's name (my father thought it was funny).

"Seth was accepted into the Governor's School."

I'm not surprised. Unlike the rest of the family, young Seth actually _wants_ to grovel to Mother. Not to imply that at one point I didn't bow to her demands. The whole reason I was at seminary was because she wanted me to be a bishop. Maybe I would be headed to that fate now except that I'm not into freakishly tall hats and colored robes. (Well, I guess robes are cool. Since _Harry Potter_ and all…) And I decided I didn't want to be a rector either. I like to be in charge, and the way I see it, the parish members hold the reins, not the rector. Nope. Not for me.

Screw you, Mom.

Instead of voicing that last thought, I politely say, "Tell Seth I'm proud of him. What about Ness? How is she?"

Mother sighs. "You know how _gulls_ can be."

When I was home at Christmas, I noticed that Ness was starting to go off the rails a bit, being rebellious and arguing with the 'rents. Her behavior needs to be checked, but our father works constantly and our mother is too preoccupied donating money to pet causes, supervising her multiple homes, and organizing the family's international travel. Alas, Seth and Ness are too old for nannies.

"What's happened?"

"Well, we entertained a visit from a local law enforcement officer early this morning. Ness was spending the night with a friend, but they decided to take the _gull's_ mother's car for a joyride during the wee hours—"

"Isn't that considered car theft?"

"Fortunately the _gull's_ mother didn't report her car as stolen; she was sleeping. However, Ness isn't a licensed driver—neither is the _gull—_regardless, Ness was driving when they were pulled over…"

My elbow propped on my desk, I pinch the bridge of my nose, open my mouth, and cross my eyes.

"That's actually another reason I called, Edward. I was thinking you could enroll Ness at St. Anne's…"

_No, no, no, no, no, no, no._ I can't—I _won't_ raise the child that my parents don't have time for. I should have seen something like this coming. Yeah, she's being ruined where she is, but…

"Edward, are you still there?" my mother says sharply.

I panic for a second, before I realize that this would probably be positive for my sister. She wouldn't have to live with me. She could stay in the dorms and be another occupational responsibility just like the other 600 _gulls_ under my watch.

"Did you talk to Dad about this?"

"Of course. Mr. Masen thinks it's for the best."

"All right. Let me talk to Dr. Cullen about it. But how will she do being separated from Seth?" I suppose he could come out with Ness, but then he would have to live with me and go to—banish the thought!—public school. Elizabeth Masen would slit her wrists before she let that happen.

"Edward, he's going to a new school in the fall anyway."

"So you want to wait until the new school year?"

"No. As soon as possible … if it's possible. I want her boarded."

Christ, she sounds like she's talking about a Spaniel, not her only _daugh-tuh_. Nor is she sounding worried that her plan won't turn out. I think she assumes that because she asked me, it's not only possible, but likely.

"We can afford the tuition."

I try to put her off and I don't promise that we can take Ness right away. As she discusses the details of this change, my mind wanders back to the little Swan with the deep brown eyes.

What did I do to her to make her so frustrated with me? I've only ever said hello and acted concerned for her well-being. She is an ill-mannered little girl who needs to learn who is boss around here. Yes, an attitude adjustment is in order. Fortunately, if she continues to hang out with Alice Brandon, it's only a matter of time before she ends up in my office. I look forward to the pleasure.

Do I want to hurt her?

Well… It's not exactly like that. I don't want to hurt her _badly. _But I will make her wince and moan … and blush. And when I'm finished, she'll thank me for it.

"Edward, I want you to promise me that you'll talk to Carlisle Cullen right away. If you don't, then I will," my mother is threatening, "and I will be cross with you, young man, for ignoring your family when we need you."

_We can't have that, can we?_ My mind skips back to the current conversation.

Don't worry about me. I'm quite accustomed to my mother's temper, and I promise you I can give her hell right back—maybe even more so. Along with my hair and coloring, I inherited Elizabeth Masen's abrupt rage and I know how to use it.

When I hang up with my mother and take some deep breaths, I try Tanya—I suppose because I'm feeling guilty about my Isabella fixation. My girlfriend's breathless while she froths the milk in a customer's latte and chatters animatedly because she got a callback for a play. I encourage her, although I shouldn't. Tanya expects me to be supportive and I am.

I imagine her in the black apron with sleeves rolled, strands of frizzy strawberry-blonde hairs escaping the cap she wears. A striking, tall woman, Tanya would make plenty of money modeling. And yet, she insists on trying out for acting parts. Ergo, her parents cringe as that expensive degree in art history from Columbia withers and fades in a desk drawer file.

I tell her about ideas I'm saving for when she comes out to Washington. I want to take the ferry from Port Angeles to Victoria. I know Tanya will like that. She promises to let me know when I can order her plane ticket.

I sigh and glance at the clock. Dinner is well over and I realize that Carlisle is not still in the offices. He's of course gone home for his evening meal and will probably not come back here for the sole purpose of smacking Rosalie. I don't know why I didn't think of that before.

Disappointed, I grab my jacket and head out into the freezing rain. It hardly ever snows here, but it rains—a lot—and it is a cold wetness that persists long after you retreat indoors.

As I pass the headmaster's home on the way to my car, I hear my name being called. Sitting on his porch, looking more like he ought to have a pipe and cup of tea, is Dr. Carlisle Cullen in a casual Henley pullover and jeans. He's motioning me over with a wave from the hand that's holding a bottle of stout. There is an inviting thread of chimney smoke hanging about in the trees overhead the roof.

I tentatively climb the incline of lawn and step onto the porch, and Carlisle sticks his lit cigar in his mouth and reaches out to shift a nearby chair. "Have time for a sit?" he mumbles.

"Sure, thanks," I say, trying to sound indifferent, but I'm kind of delighted … _and_ suspicious at the same time. I've been to the Cullen house twice before for staff get-togethers, but I've never been invited to hang out here while Carlisle enjoys his evening smoke and drink.

The headmaster is in his thirties, about ten years older than I. Handsome fellow. I've wondered why he's still a bachelor. I mean, I know it's outdated, but I hope to be married with a family by the time I'm his age. Jasper thinks he might be gay, still in the closet. I honestly can't tell.

He's from a suburb of London, but his family moved to upstate New York when he was a young man. An alumnus of General Theological Seminary, where he earned his Ph. D., he spoke with the president of the school before selecting me to interview for this position at St. Anne's. I was literally handpicked by Dr. Cullen.

"I'm waiting for my niece," Carlisle begins, strands of blond hair falling over the side of his forehead. "Esme gave her the note that said I wanted to see her after dinner. She's bloody taking her time getting here."

"Oh," is all I can think to say. I wonder if I ought to mention Nessie to him, but I'm more than curious about Rosalie standing up her uncle. I had assumed that was all over and done by now. My hope (and my obsession) is reignited.

"Perhaps she reported to her hall first…"

"I did tell her to sign in with the RA at seven, sir." Although it's already half past.

"Or she's manipulating me." He takes a swig from the dark bottle.

"Maybe…"

"Rose is a complicated young woman."

"Yes."

"She was never very chipper as a child, but she was a good girl—pleasant. And then there was an unfortunate event."

"Oh?"

"Before she came to St. Anne's… At the age of thirteen, Rosalie looked sixteen, and ever since then, she's attracted male attention. Back in New York, she was assaulted by men, at a too-young age—not that any age is better than another—"

"Men?" I interrupt. Suddenly I am outraged, ready to kill to defend Rosalie's honor. Carlisle looks slightly dangerous as well, taking a forceful inhale from his cigar, and I think he's feeling the same compulsion to hurt whoever it was that ruined his sister's child.

"Men," he confirms with a puff of smoke. "We don't know precisely what happened, but whatever it was, it was bad. She's not been the same since. Always angry. Always manipulating."

_Always weight-lifting,_ I think. Suddenly Rosalie's "tenacity," as Emmett called it, makes more sense to me.

"It's one direction the curse of Eve can take. C. S. Lewis said that God knows what a wretched machine we drive." I consider this as Carlisle draws again on his cigar. "Thus she must be treated with proper care. Firmly but gently."

I nod. I can do that.

"It's colder than a welldigger's arse, Edward. I've got a fire going inside. Can you come in?"

We stand up, but that's when I see Rosalie crossing the yard. She's wearing _short_ drawstring terry-cloth shorts—the kind that women wear running—Ugg boots and a hooded coat. Obviously she didn't come from the dining hall, as students are only allowed to wear their school clothes, gym uniform—which comprise long shorts and a rugby-style shirt with the St. Anne's crest on it—or an appropriate skirt or dress.

"I'll be on my way home," I start. I don't want to leave, but…

"Please stay," he commands with quiet authority, and that's enough for me.

Rose glares daggers in my direction as she walks onto the porch and pulls back her hood.

"Miss Hale," I greet.

"Mr. Masen. Hello, Uncle."

Carlisle turns sternly toward her. "Rosalie, I asked you to come straight here after dinner. Where have you been?"

"Oh, I caught a quick workout. Since I'm going to be confined to the dorm all week. I didn't realize it mattered."

"Is it that Mr. Masen gave you instructions to be in your suite at seven?" She squirms a bit under the menace of the rhetorical question. "I don't think working out after dinner is a condition of your punishment, _and_ I think you know that."

"Sorry," she says in a small voice. This is the first time I've ever heard any real remorse from her.

"You're wearing bloody shorts and it's thirty degrees out here. Let's go in." He stubs the cigar out in an ash tray on the porch railing.

"Him too?" Rosalie asks.

"Yes, this involves Mr. Masen, too."

I'm feeling really awkward, but I do my best to affect my "assistant headmaster" deportment and take my cues from Dr. Cullen.

Once in the foyer, I'm once again struck by its appearance. Circa 1900, the substantial residence is one of the oldest structures in Forks. I suspect that this furniture and decor came with the house and the position of headmaster, because it doesn't quite match the man. It's very plush and lavish in a way that Carlisle is not.

"Forgive my manners, Mr. Masen, would you care for a beverage?" I notice he's not specifically offering me what he was drinking, probably because we've assumed formalities and typical work posturing. Alcohol would not be appropriate at this point, I don't think.

"No, thank you, sir."

"Aren't you going to offer _me_ a drink, Uncle?" Rosalie asks archly.

"Not now, Rosalie. You're here to get a spanking and that's all you'll be getting."

My heartbeat quickens and saliva floods my mouth, causing me to swallow noisily. Well. He certainly knows how to cut to the chase.

"What?!" Rose is indignant, her eyes flitting from her uncle to me.

"Surely you suspected as much."

"But that's not fair! I've only been turned in twice. The policy is three strikes, unless it's a major offense, and I've not committed a major offense."

I almost audibly groan. I can't tell you how many times I've heard "that's not fair" since I took this position, and I assure you that our disciplinary code is more than fair. Damn these rich _gulls_ and their entitled claims.

"Yes, that is the _school_ policy, but I'm acting as your guardian. I promised your mother and father that I would take care of you as if you were my own—acting in their stead, and I know what your parents would do if you had cheeked a teacher whilst under their roof."

"But, _he's_ here." She is gritting her teeth.

"Your behavior embarrassed me, Rosalie. I will now embarrass _you_." The girl's cheeks turn red with his pronouncement. I can't tell if she is embarrassed or simply more furious than usual. "I will take you behind a closed door for your privacy; however, I want Mr. Masen to stay, since he will be taking you in hand from now on, third strike or not. And I'll warn you now, when that happens, not only will you be subject to Mr. Masen's discipline, but you will be summoned here to see me and the tennis-table bat every night for a week. Tonight your punishment will be worse because you kept me waiting and violated your restriction. Had you been here on time, _he_ wouldn't be here at all."

Rosalie's breathing is strained, but she doesn't speak. Tears forming in her eyes spill over, and I am not believing what I am seeing. I've had girls cry before I'd ever touched them, but this was _Rosalie Hale_. The star field hockey forward who uses authority figures as a file on which to sharpen her claws. If _I'm_ a monster, that girl's a dragon.

Carlisle isn't quite finished. "Before you open your mouth, I want you to think about how what you say will make others feel. I know you know better, Rosalie. I expect better of you.

"Take off your coat," Carlisle directs. She shakily complies and he sets his bottle down. He lightly but assertively grabs her upper arm and escorts her to the room on the left, which I recall is a type of parlor with lots of seating and a billiards table. The door clicks shut.

Not really knowing what to do—but knowing what I _want_ to do—I sit at the end of a tall staircase near the door and rest my head in my hands. I can't quite make words out of the mumbles, but suddenly Carlisle raises his voice.

"Walk, Rosalie!"

A moment later, after more muttering, the smacking starts. I guess that Carlisle's using the "tennis-table bat" that he mentioned. I visualize Rose bent over the billiards table, shorts riding up and revealing the lower curves of her ass and a peek of those black panties I saw earlier today. This image is replaced when I see Isabella in Rosalie's position, tightening the buttock muscles, as girls always do during spankings. Isabella's eyes are screwed shut and her teeth clenched, lips drawn up. My left hand is holding her down on the table while the right hand wields the paddle.

Although what's going on in my pants is contradicting this, I realize something is wrong about the mental image I'm conjuring. Why, I don't know, but I'm not comfortable with what's happening, and therefore the vision isn't doing it for me.

Not half a dozen swats into the _actual_ paddling going on beyond the wall and Rosalie is making urgent noises of distress.

Carlisle speaks loudly again. "You are a big girl, you can stay still for your punishment or I will take you across my knee."

A couple more whacks, then there's shuffling. Rose is whining something that I can't hear. I assume he's moving her to a chair or couch where he sits down. After a moment, the smacking continues, but the sound is changed. I know that sound. It's wood on bare flesh. Even though it's been a while for me, I'm quite familiar with the sound … and the suffering.

Rosalie is shrieking now.

I feel like shit. Carlisle is being strict, going much harder on Rose than I do with my students who strike out. It's confusing for me to observe this sort of paradox—a man as tolerant as he making this disturbed young woman pay at great cost for being unkind. I wish now that I hadn't said anything to him and had handled Rose myself.

Never thought this would ever happen, but I can't listen anymore. I make my way farther down the hall to an upright piano and start to play a distracting tune.

Ten minutes later, I hear the door to the parlor open. Carlisle carries the paddle by his side and Rosalie crushed under his opposite arm. Her face is tear-stained, but I can see she's making a decent effort to maintain a stiff upper lip, even if she is leaning pitifully into her uncle. I stop nudging the keys and look to Carlisle, who seems … rather jaunty now that the worst is over, if I'm reading him right.

"I change my mind about offering sustenance. Esme baked biscuits here this afternoon. Why don't you two eat whilst I put the kettle on."

_Esme was here this afternoon … baking? Huh? And now I'm supposed to eat cookies and drink tea with Rosalie, who just got her ass busted while I listened… _All I really want to do is go home and take a shower.

Rosalie ducks out from under his hold and makes her way to where her coat was left. "I don't want bickies, Uncle Carlisle. I'm not six years old. And I can't eat gluten. Remember?"

"Oh, right…" He looks confused. "Uh. Go on to Rainier then and abide by Mr. Masen's grounding." (Rainier is the senior's residence hall.)

"So I can miss Compline tomorrow?" Despite the sniffle, she sounds hopeful.

"No, school events are obligatory, regardless of your curfew, especially if they're for your spiritual benefit."

"I'll walk you back, Miss Hale," I offer, standing from the piano bench.

"No, thank you," she answers meekly. "I want to take a run … to my dorm, I mean." Carlisle kisses her head, squeezes her shoulders, and escorts her to the porch.

After he shuts the door and turns to me, I raise an eyebrow at the ping-pong paddle still in Carlisle's grip.

He lifts it and shrugs. "You wouldn't want to smack Rose with your hand. It would hurt too much—your hand, I mean. All that strength training and running track." He shook his head, glancing over his shoulder at the door through which she left.

This makes me think. I know the school owns implements of corporal punishment, because I've heard the students speak of them. But these have not been transferred to my office, and I wonder why not. I mean, even Emmett's got a paddle. He's not averse to using it either. It's become in a way a right of passage in gym class to bend over on hands and knees for swats from Coach McCarty's board. Although it does more to stir the girls up than to subdue them, in my opinion. All the other teachers follow the handbook and send their problem students to me. For some reason, Emmett gets away with his own rulings, I suppose because the athletics department is a quarter-mile from the academic buildings.

"I don't have a paddle at my disposal," I mention for some reason, even though I don't know that I would use one, given the negative reaction I'm having at the moment. I don't actually mind hurting my hand either. You lose feeling after a while and then when the numbness fades, it's a nice tingly, stinging sensation.

"It's not in your office then?" Carlisle asks, but he sort of sounds as if he already knew that.

"No, sir." The paddle he grips is making me feel nervous and I run a finger around my shirt collar.

"We'll have to see what we can do about that." He strokes his chin. "Edward, I know that Rosalie made quite a fuss about this, but I want you to know that I wasn't overly harsh. She seems to convince herself that it is traumatic, like she requires a basis of severity to be able to release all her spite and frustration."

_What the hell is going on here?_ I question silently. This was undoubtedly a demonstration for my advantage, I guess about how to handle the headmaster's obnoxious niece. And now he's justifying it. _Can_ I believe what he said about not being cruel? When I punish a student, it takes less than a minute.

As though he's read my mind, he explains. "I only struck her once for each year of age. I think that's fair. She didn't cooperate, and so I made things more uncomfortable for her. It's nothing that wouldn't happen at school. During the process I console her, tell her what's going to happen…"

Well, that makes sense, I guess. I like to draw out the ritual and anticipation of a spanking, for my own pleasure, and I like to think that the girl might find some comfort in the approach, too.

I bring up something that's troubling me. "Um, Rosalie implied that you might not appreciate it if I disciplined her. I had the impression that my job might be at risk."

He nods. "It's a trick she's pulled with other faculty in the past—her way of getting away with misbehavior. Look, I don't want you to think that I don't trust you with her. I chose you myself for this undertaking, and I know that you respectfully carry out your responsibilities." He smiles at me in that way he has—it's altogether kind and disarming and makes me want to call Rosalie back here so I can show him that I've got what it takes.

Didn't Rosalie deserve this? I'm convinced that she did, and it seemed to help quiet her hostility.

I return his smile. I want him to trust me, and I want to make him proud. This is Carlisle Cullen, not the Big Bad Wolf.

"Thanks for taking the time to tell me about Rosalie, sir. Thanks for trusting me. I can understand some of what Rosalie's going through; I've got a sister who's troubled, too."

He looks at me with interest and slaps my back. "Let's get you a Guinness and we'll chat about it."

Carlisle is a good guy, I can tell. But I'm not so naive as to not recognize that something strange is going on here. As much as I want to get home and relieve myself, I will take the time to figure out what it is that Carlisle is hiding.

* * *

AN: Despite what it may look like, there will be no incest in this fic. Thought I would preemptively relieve you of that notion had it hassled you whilst you read. :) Thanks in advance for your comments and continued reading.


	3. Chapter 3

"Mr. Masen? Sorry to interrupt you…"

A melodious voice is delivered to my ears by way of my office door. I look up to see little Alice in the threshold, over-actively fingering the hem of her skirt.

"Miss Brandon, you are always welcome to interrupt my paperwork. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

She prances in and passes me a yellow slip. I sigh with obligatory disappointment.

"It's Tuesday, Miss Brandon. I wasn't expecting you for another two days at least."

"I know!" she exclaims with her own version of the prescribed disappointment. "But I figure since it's going to happen anyway, I might as well admit defeat early. Then it gives me a reason to behave for the rest of the week. Right?"

"Right," I repeat slowly, bemused. "Well, I need to finish this report, so you'll have to keep me company for the time being. You can have a seat over there," I point to the sofa against the wall.

"Okay," she agrees, ever chipper. She twirls gracefully and skips to the love seat, awfully upbeat for a girl who is in trouble. I shake my head. I might've thought that a delay in consequences would heighten her unease, making this experience that much more unpleasant. That's not really why I'm making her wait, though.

The truth is that I'm not feeling up to being disciplinarian at the moment. So far it's been a challenging day, and yeah, it might help my mood if I can release this frustration, using little Alice's hide and my hand as a channel. But I doubt if even that will change the course of this particular Tuesday. I don't know where it started to go wrong. Scratch that. Maybe I do…

Yesterday ended well. I stayed at Dr. Cullen's for another couple of hours and let him know about my dilemma with Nessie and my mother. In a moment of uninhibited speech, I asked Carlisle if his family was as irritating as mine. He chuckled at that and commiserated. It was good for me to unload, and he said Ness was welcome to enroll forthwith. St. Anne's hosted a fair measure of troubled girls, a few of whom had even been kicked out of their previous institutions. Now, we're no reform school, but as long as the mommies and daddies can pay the $45,000 annual tuition, and Carlisle deems the child acceptable, well, "Welcome to St. Anne's Bellemount! Here's your skirt and crested jacket." More often than not, the structure of the academy and the distance from family solves a lot of problems. It's up to me to find a space for my sister in the residence halls and work out her class schedule, but with Carlisle's blessing, this is a relief. At least the mother monster wouldn't be at my throat for neglecting my dysfunctional family in their time of need.

As far as the other thing… Unfortunately I didn't find any answers to what was up with Carlisle. Why he was so forward about punishing Rosalie and so unnecessarily set on my being there while it happened. It will remain a mystery for now, but I won't leave off until I discover what it is, even if that means more waiting and more digging.

Jasper and Emmett know a lot more than I do about St. Anne's, its illustrious past, _and_ its cast of characters. And in a world full of females and family men, Jasper, Emmett, and I—as the few unmarried faculty guys—stick together and share most things. Being in my position, I must exercise discretion; nevertheless, I have concerns to which I want explanations. Now Emmett's up on the dirt around town, but he's also prone to blab. Jasper, though … Jasper's my man. Always cool, always savvy, always guarded. If I tell him about last night, my secret is safe, _and_ he might have inside information to impart—and I know he trusts me.

Once I reached my home after leaving campus, I landed straight on my couch and eventually fell asleep after attending to my physiological—or perhaps I ought to say _carnal_—needs while listening to Lauren's iPod shuffle.

During the night, the dreams took over. First, I was spanking Avril Lavigne—who had been singing "Here's To Never Growing Up" in my ear when I drifted off—until her face was streaked with bleary black eye makeup. She thrashed and moaned in the most sexy way. Then it got dangerous. Avril turned into Isabella Swan. I remember being struck by the girl's innocence in contrast to the pop diva's bad-ass self. The rest, I'm ashamed to say. Let's just put it this way: the spectacle didn't end with the spanking. Worst yet, I kept waking up in between dream scenes, whacking off, and then falling asleep to attend more of the Isabella night show. The shame was immense, during and after. Isabella is my _student_, for Christ's sake.

Because I wasn't in my bed and I'd forgotten to charge my phone with the alarm, I'd slept late. So, I felt awful _and_ I was in a rush to get to school for a morning assembly, when I was ticketed by none other than chief of police, Charlie Swan. The father of the seventeen-year-old girl I was illegally banging in my dreams all night, in case you've forgotten. He was also on his way to St. Anne's for the assembly, during which he would be giving a presentation on the dangers of underage drinking.

Pulling me over on this morning, in my opinion, was really uncalled for.

"Morning, Chief Swan," I said as I customarily handed over my license and papers from the glove compartment.

"Mr. Masen."

"You can call me Edward." He didn't offer me the same courtesy of a first name.

"Edward, I don't know how they do it in Chicago, but here you can't drive through a town going over 50 miles per hour."

"Actually, I was living in New York City for the last few years."

He scowled like I'd given him yet another reason to hate me. For a mad moment I wondered if he somehow knew all the obscene things I did to his daughter during my sleep. _Of course not,_ I told myself. That would be one fucked-up form of Big Brother when the small-town law enforcement patrolled its citizens' dreams. _Try not to be paranoid, Masen._

"You got a bad case of bed head there, son," he mumbled—another unnecessary reprimand, if I've ever heard one. After the evil-eye probing, he backtracked to his vehicle to write the ticket.

This was insanity. There was nobody on the road at this hour, since all the working public were already at the mill or running their trucks out of town or out on logging sites. I was not driving recklessly! And where was the camaraderie we had shared back in the fall when a St. Anne's girl went AWOL? That was a fun night, I tell ya. Like Force Recon Marines, he and I trekked through the dark wet jungles surrounding the school until the Forks diner waitress finally called in to say our Miss MIA had wandered in with a local boy after midnight for munchies. (I would have thought the girl's parents had taught her about stranger-danger, but perhaps there was a temporary lapse in common sense.) _So how about you cut me some some slack, Charlie … for a fellow comrade in arms?_

"Sir, in all honesty, this looks like a speed trap to me." I don't know why—because I knew I was guilty—but I tried to defend myself when he returned. "I mean, I go for miles on the 101 at fifty-five and then out of nowhere, this in-town speed limit surprises me and by the time I can slow down to thirty-five, I'm out of Forks and on the winding rural highway again." I said all this pleasantly and with practiced confidence, and yet he didn't seem impressed.

"You can take that up with a judge on this date," he pointed at the paper ticket, "or you can simply pay the fine. But this is the fourth time I've had to pull you over, Edward. Any more and you may have a court appointment whether you care to or not."

"Okay."

"Now, I believe we both have a date at the school. Don't be late, Edward."

"Yes, sir. Thanks," I said tonelessly, grasping the ticket and rolling my eyes.

So then I hightailed it to my office to try to fix my hair, which was stuck out in all directions after my restless night, as Charlie was so kind to point out. I knotted a tie around my collar and shrugged into a suit jacket that I keep there for formal emergencies.

I eventually made it to the auditorium, which was chaotic by that point, because I was ten minutes late. I strode to the podium to quiet the 600 _gulls_ in attendance. Once it was finally settling down, a lone but loud student let out a piercing catcall, which incited the room again with laughter and a collective, prolonged, "awwwWWWWWW!"

Ah yes, my adoring public. Of course, they wouldn't behave for me on the one morning that the chief of police, who had just cited me for speeding, would be there. I feel sure that had Carlisle stepped out on stage, with the air of a Cambridge don, they would have shut up without any encouragement.

I ignored their whistles and the spotted glowing of their contraband smart phones, flashed a dazzling smile—to contradict the overwhelming urge to go back to my couch and jack off in self-pity—calmed the giggles with a tap-tap-tap on the microphone and a stern throat clearing. Despite my smile, the glare said, "Try me and I will haul your spoiled, impertinent ass on stage and spank the hell out of you in front of the undivided student population. Who's first? Go ahead. I _want_ to spank you publicly, and I don't care if my mug shot ends up on the evening news. It would make this day so much better."

The girls seemed to catch my unspoken drift and quieted.

"May I remind you that students caught with phones on academic premises will have their devices confiscated and five demerits added to their records. Thank you." Then I happily handed the disobedient little brats over to Chief Swan. I sat in the secluded front row, leaned forward on my elbows, and glowered during his gruesome slide show and storytelling. I know I sure could've used a drink.

So that was my morning. Yeah. Epic.

Then Esme came in here a while ago with a paper bag. She wore her usual smile, but I detected the tension under the carefree demeanor, mostly because she was having trouble making eye contact with me. I removed from the bag a handsome leather paddle. It was not overly large, but dark, smooth, and quite handy. I was relieved to see this and not the long wooden paddle—usually accessorized with drilled holes to alleviate wind resistance—that I associated with school discipline. It would appear that I suffer from a phobia of wooden paddles.

We can thank my mother for that. She kept a thick board at home for my frequent correction, which happened whenever she was made angry—_which_ was a lot. When we were out and about, she kept a smaller, thinner version in her handbag. I remember as a boy wanting one of those rubber-ball and paddle sets from the dollar store. She bought it for me, but not two days later, she had ripped the staple and elastic out and was whacking _me_ with it. Now, my dad would, on occasion, give me a couple slaps with his belt if I needed it, but I never resented him for it. He was always regretful but resigned to punishing me. My mother, however… I used to fantasize about my father coming home, snatching that paddle out of her hand, and using it on her instead. Unfortunately, he was never so overt.

"Dr. Cullen told me to give this to you," Esme said quietly, not knowing where to look if not at me or the paddle.

"Thank you, Ms. Platt. I'll put it to good use."

I handled it for a moment and even gave it a couple of swings after Esme left. I wondered why our pretty secretary would suddenly be timid around me. We usually banter and even mildly flirt with each other when nobody's around. Perhaps, like me, she's got a phobia of _leather_ paddles. You never know about people, do you?

Now, going cross-eyed with these academic reports, I groan. And I'm hungry, having skipped lunch to catch up on the work I neglected since I arrived late. After this, I still need to work out Nessie's courses and living situation. Not to mention that I'll need to call my mother and tell her to pack up Nessie's waterproof jacket, because she's going to need it.

Alice has been fidgeting like a boy before his piano exam. Can somebody say ADHD?

"Talk to me, Miss Brandon."

"About what, sir?"

"I don't know. Distract me."

"Hmmm … well, okay!" That didn't take much persuasion. "Do you think Monsieur Bonnier would mind my talking in class if I stuck to_ Francais?"_

I shrug my shoulders and make a face. _"Je ne sais pas."_

"Probably wouldn't matter. He's in an eternally bad mood."

"I think that's generally a French trait." Although I think Monsieur is from Haiti…

"Yeah, and he's never really forgiven me for calling him a priss in French. _Which_ was a total accident!"

That sounds like an entertaining story, but I'm not really in the mood to talk about Laurent and his perpetual grumpy face. "Uh, why don't you tell me about the new student."

"Bella? Oh, I like her _so_ much. I can tell we're going to be BFFs! It's too bad she doesn't live on campus." I sit back and let Alice rattle on. Apparently I've arrived at a favorite topic. It's mine too, if you believe my dreams. "She's got a truck, so she said she would drive me wherever I wanted, and I offered to pay for the fuel."

"That's generous of you both."

Alice rambled on about some designer belt she would have to go all the way to Seattle to find.

"She's from Phoenix?" I ask, trying to make a switchback in our conversation.

"Yeah! I mean—yes, _sir_. Her stepdad's a baseball player or something. He travels with her mother, so she's come here to live with her father. As much as she complains about it, I think she likes to take care of him. She says she can't hang out this afternoon because she really needs to grocery shop and cook dinner and do laundry."

"She complains about living here?"

"No, actually. She doesn't complain at all, but I can tell she doesn't like it. The complaint is in her expression."

"So there's no creepy boyfriend hanging about then, like the other day students. Since she's new to town…?"

"Well, there _is_ a boy from the reservation—"

"Who?"

"His name is Jake."

_Shit._

"Jake…?"

"An old friend apparently. His dad is Bella's dad's friend. Jake was hanging outside the student center this morning. He has a motorcycle!"

I already despise him. "What was he doing on campus?" I'm afraid my composure is cracking.

"Waiting for Bella. Hey, I like your outfit today, sir!"

I run a hand over my face, her sudden change of topic giving me a kind of inner whiplash. "Thanks. I was in New York after Christmas," I mutter, still mentally scorning this motorcycle punk Jake. "I been poppin' tags…"

"Obviously not at the thrift shop," Alice says, matching the lyrics from the song I was referencing. "I can tell."

"No," I admit, although that is Tanya's favorite kind of shopping.

"And you've also been listening to Lauren's iPod."

Whoa, was this girl psychic or something?

"Uh, no, I'm only doing research to launch my beat-boxing career. Oh, and I've added to my bucket list that I want to perform a duet with Pitbull."

"That ought to be on everyone's bucket list. But the clothes really are hunky, Mr. Masen. Suspenders are so fly now. Very One Direction."

"Wait. One Direction… Is that a boy band?"

"Yeah," she sings, smiling at me.

"Okay, now you're going to get it." I'm only halfway kidding.

Her eyes widen. "Are you going to spank me with that?" She points to the paddle, which I had laid on my desk. I pick it up off the flattened paper bag.

"Have you been spanked with this before?"

"Nope. I've never seen it." Then it's new. If this is the missing paddle from previous years, Alice would know it.

"No, sir," I remind. She was getting too casual with me. My fault, not hers.

"No, sir," she repeats. "Sorry."

"Just imagine. When your mother was a student here, teachers did the paddling in the classrooms."

Alice actually blushes. Is she picturing that happening to her? Perhaps seeing Jasper Whitlock punishing her in front of the class.

"Not _my_ mother," she insists. "My mother is perfect. She didn't get in trouble."

"You never know," I say kindly. I'd stopped calling her parents to report these weekly punishments. From Alice's mother, I got this put-on Southern mortification; from her father I sensed an indifference under his words—almost like a relief that his daughter was my responsibility and not causing mischief at home. Besides, after so many of these awkward phone calls, what was there left to say?

"Did you see the nurse?" I ask.

"No, sir. I don't need to." Alice was well familiar with the disciplinary process. I always sent my culprits to Charlotte first (she and I called it a "code pink," because that would be the color of the young lady's skin when I was through with her). This detour was due to one reason only: girls bleed. Now, I'm not squeamish; I don't mind a bit of blood. In between college and grad school, when I wasn't playing weekend gigs, I worked as an inner-city paramedic and saw my lion's share of gore. So the nurse's interference is a traditional courtesy for the girl. I guess since females must endure the curse of menstruation, they deserve some sort of a break. Probably wouldn't want me to _see_ their feminine product in use anyway. So, if she wants to plead the red flag flying to Charlotte, the student can opt for a seven-day reprieve.

I suppose I don't want blood on my new pants, so it's a good thing.

I click through the rest of my obligatory questions. "Do you need to use the restroom?" (Don't want _that_ on my pants either.)

"No, sir."

"Do you want Ms. Platt to come in with you?"

She shakes her head, as she always did. Most students turned down that offer after their first time. I guess the less people involved, the less embarrassment. "She wasn't out there when I came in anyway."

"Go close the door then." I roll back in my chair. "Come here." Whereas for most students I move to the sofa, Alice is so petite that her feet don't touch the floor when I angle her across my knee while I stay seated in my desk chair.

She obeys and lets me lower her down over my left thigh. I fold her skirt up and out of the way, which gives me a view of her underwear … _which_ is pale purple, cut high on the hips. This in turn reveals the twin freckles she owns on each cheek, right at the fullest curve.

Cute. (And it's a good thing for her. Alice can be intensely annoying. If she weren't so cute, you'd want to throttle her.)

And yeah, you don't have to tell me. Kinky, I know. Bending a young woman over your lap and lifting her skirt so you can slap the seat of her panties. It can get worse, too. Believe me. But you would be surprised what one can get away with when there's a paper signed by a parent or guardian and a religious affiliation for your establishment. The only rule Carlisle gave me when I started the job: no bruises. Then he revised moments later: no bruises bigger than the size of a quarter. Now that is a standard that I take seriously.

I look at the paddle on my desk and let out the breath I had been holding.

"Miss Brandon, it _is_ a new semester."

"Yes, sir," she said, docile and still for once.

"What if we don't and say we did."

"Do you mean—"

"Yeah. Do you promise to try harder to behave yourself?"

"Yes, sir!"

I push on her waist and offer my hand in front so she can stand up. "I don't want to see you in here again this week. You will not like it if I do."

"No, sir! I don't want to see you either! I mean—" She slaps her forehead.

"It's okay, Miss Brandon."

Suddenly her arms are flung around my neck and she pecks me on the cheek. I can't help but soften. "Be kind to Bella, Mr. Masen. She's my friend, and I think you scare her."

The kiss combined with her mention of Bella surprises me, and I'm not certain how to answer. "Go back to class, and let's keep this bit of amnesty between us."

"Yes, sir! Thank you!"

"That means you need to wipe that grin off your face."

"Oh. Yes, sir." She even gives me a slight salute. It's comical how fast she turns serious, but I don't laugh. My temper is starting to burn.

She leaves and I stride straight into Carlisle's office, determined to take care of this aggravating business.

"Edward—" he greets, jolly until I cut him off.

"There's a boy hanging out on campus, waiting for Isabella Swan," I blurt out.

He looks at me, confused.

"A boy with a motorcycle."

That piques his interest. "She only started school yesterday. She's already got a boyfriend?"

"A _biker_ boyfriend. Can I kick him off the property, sir?"

"Well, yes, if he shows up again. But I want it done in a dignified manner. Try to do it when there aren't students about. Do you want James to help you?"

"I'll handle it."

"Right then. Anything to report … other than Miss Swan's suitor…?"

"Uh, Alice Brandon came to see me. It was for talking again … in French class."

"Yes, dear girl. I wish I could exonerate her. However, she _is_ naughty and rules are rules."

I don't think he knows anything about the pardon—how could he?—but that's quite a coincidence. That whole Big Brother thing comes to mind again, but I did promise myself I wouldn't be paranoid.

"Is that all?" he asks while I'm still caught a bit off guard by his insight.

"You'll notice, sir, that she's the only student who earns a visit to see me by _talking _in—"

Suddenly Esme whirls in, clutching the doorframe. "Oh, there you are, Mr. Masen! The nurse was called out to the gymnasium. There's been an incident involving a group of students."

"Dear God, what is it?" Carlisle asks, standing.

"I don't know. Mr. McCarty told me to call for an ambulance, although he said he didn't think any of the injuries serious. But he needs help."

"Injuries… Tell him I'll be on my way. Mr. Masen, you stay here in case—"

"You can stay, Dr. Cullen," I politely but firmly disagree. "I've got medical training, and if it's not serious, Charlotte, Emmett, and I can handle it. I'll call you when I know more."

He hesitates only briefly. "Yes, thank you. Very good. But please let me know what's going on as soon as possible."

I jog across the lobby area to my office and grab my parka, then I head out into the rain and run toward the athletic buildings. The way the campus is laid out, I can reach it faster on foot if I cut through the equestrian center.

When I reach the gym, I see a lot of eleventh-grade students standing around, ogling and gasping in horror at the grisly display at the other end of the basketball court. This is near an alcove that leads to the locker rooms. There are two girls laid out on the floor here, moaning. Another is sitting on the bench using her fingers to brace a badly bashed-in nose. A girl is on the ground, holding her knees and crying. Two other girls are being reamed out by Emmett while another is being looked after by Charlotte. Blood is all over the students and the court floor.

"Take a seat on the bleachers," I bellow to the students who are still in one piece before I half-walk half-jog to the crime scene and shed my coat.

I yell at Emmett with my arms raised in question, "Dodgeball game gone bad?"

"Nah," he returns over the heads of the guilty party. "You ain't never seen nothing more ruthless than a girl fight, son." This good ole boy from Tennessee, who likes to talk gangsta, reverts to his Southern speech. He's right. I've never seen carnage from a girl fight before, and this looks especially violent.

I go first to a young woman lying down and holding gauze to her head. I gently lift the bandage and see that the wound, though superficial, is bleeding intensely. I grab her a new stack of gauze from Charlotte's kit and direct her to keep pressure on it. Then I check the other girl with a similar head wound, only this cut is above her eye, and I can see the bruising developing underneath. I borrow a penlight from Charlotte and check the girls' pupils. No concussions, but both will need stitches. The crying girl was hit in the abdomen, got the wind knocked out of her. She'll be fine once the panic attack runs its course. I don't happen to have a paper bag handy, although I remember regretfully that there is one on my desk. The bloody nose is broken, and Charlotte sets it. One other girl's had her front teeth knocked loose. The upright ladies are wearing lots of scratches and bruises, but other than that—as well as the tears and sniffles Emmett's provoked with his lecture—it's all right. I'm going to take these two back to Dr. Cullen's office to get their stories, since the others will need to go either to the ER or back to Charlotte's infirmary for additional care. We don't take kindly to fighting at St. Anne's. Once I find out who is the instigator(s), she (they) may be expelled.

What a first-rate fuck-up. This brawl is going to create untold chores for me. I borrow Emmett's cell phone (because mine is still in my car with a dead battery) and give Carlisle a report.

An alarmed Jessica Stanley finds me. "Mr. Masen! It's Bella. I found her in the locker room! Something's wrong!"

_Bella… Isabella is in this class._ I rush with Jessica past the water fountains and Emmett's office and navigate rows of blue lockers until Jessica shows me where the dark-haired girl is laid out on her side across a bench.

"Miss Swan?" I call with urgency.

Her eyes remain closed. "Go away," she says through gritted teeth.

"Is she hurt? Miss Stanley, you found her this way?"

"Yes, sir! I had to use the bathroom, and I happened to find her on my way. I think she fainted. Bella, are you okay?"

"I will be. I just—need—a m-minute…"

"All right, thank you, Miss Stanley. Go back with your class. I'll stay with her."

"But … sir? I still have to go to the bathroom."

"That's fine. Go ahead." I sigh and now that I'm standing over her, I notice that Isabella appears slightly green with a gloss of perspiration across her forehead. Despite that unnatural color, she looks sublime in her royal blue cardigan sweater. The white shirt underneath is pulled tight to the side, revealing a bare collar. The ivory skin against that blue is stunning. I suppose her custom gym uniform hasn't come in yet, because she's wearing her plaid school kilt. I try to recall what she was wearing in my dream last night, but then I remember that clothes were not included. Can't think about that right now unless I want to give Miss Swan an unintended introduction to the Mister Masen twitching inside my trousers.

"Miss Swan, you didn't participate in the fight, I assume. You're not injured?"

"No."

_No, _sir_._

I reluctantly walk away to soak a couple of paper towels with cool water. When I come back, I crouch beside her and lay the towels on her head. With that, she opens those lovely brown eyes and looks at me as if enchanted.

"Thank you." She bites her lip. She's either shy or afraid.

I find the voice I use when I'm not supposed to scare little girls. "You're welcome. You look awful." I grin at her.

Isabella squints, annoyed I think. "I all of a sudden wasn't feeling well," she says weakly. "I almost passed out … or I was going to throw up … maybe both."

"Are you premenstrual?"

The newly gained expression of trust turns to disbelief and she falters. "What?!"

"Well, yesterday you almost passed out in the hall—"

"I tripped."

"There's such a thing as PMS-related anemia—"

"I'm not."

"What?"

"I'm not … _premenstrual!_" The last word was said in a furious hush.

"Anemia—"

"No." Her eyelids flutter. "It was the blood." She bites her lip again.

At least she's talking to me. The problem is I can't figure out what she's trying to say.

"The blood from the fight," she finally gets out, shuddering when she finishes.

_Ohhh._ I smile again. "I see. The sight of the blood from the fighting made you feel ill."

"And the scent."

_Hm. Was it that much blood that she could smell it?_ "Can you sit up, Miss Swan?"

"Maybe." She tries and fails. I slip my arms under her knees and back and pick her up, ignoring her protests. "Put me down! I'm going to throw up on you!" She actually kicks her legs like a tantrum-throwing toddler. I hold on tighter.

We emerge from the locker room and the whole class is watching. Now Isabella seems humiliated as well as nauseous, turning her face toward my chest and going slightly limp. There are EMTs with gurneys carting off the bodies. I'm reminded of _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_. (_"Bring out your dead!" "But I'm not dead yet!")_ I chuckle, peering down at the young woman in my arms. Isabella looks like she wants to be dead or she "will be soon enough," like the line from the movie.

"I'm taking Miss Swan to the infirmary," I tell the nurse. "She fainted."

Charlotte nods, distracted by the more severe cases at hand. "She can lie on a bed in the back. I've got cold compresses in the little fridge by the door."

"Here," Emmett says, standing up and digging in his pocket. He tosses me his keys. "Take the Mule."

"Thanks. I'm bringing those two with me to the offices. Get your jackets." I point at the scrappy girls. After a trip to their lockers, the condemned follow me, heads hanging, out to the school's Kawasaki utility vehicle. I slide my patient into the front seat. The fighters crawl in back.

This sorry excuse for a set of wheels makes me feel impotent. Now I wish I'd driven my Volvo.

"Mr. Masen?" Michelle Newton asks pitifully.

I snap. "You can ask questions once we meet with Dr. Cullen. You are in big trouble, and I suggest you keep your mouth shut until you're told otherwise."

At this, Isabella keeps her gaze directed at her lap.

Once parked, my patient attempts to exit the vehicle on her own. She stumbles and grabs onto the side of the cab to keep her feet.

"Hold it right there. I'll get you."

I carry Isabella into the main academic building, and she actually wraps her arms around my neck and holds on. She smells really good and that's somehow making me even more hungry.

"You two stay here and _don't_ move," I order, pointing at a space of wall in the corridor that will occupy my prisoners for a moment.

I enter Charlotte's territory with Isabella and set the girl on a cot. "Lie down."

"I'm fine." She tries to get up but I push her down.

"You will stay here until I come back. I need to take Miss Newton and Miss York to the office. Now lie down."

She abruptly complies, looking startled by my tone. Good, I think. _You'd do best to mind me, little Swan._

I escort the miscreants to the lobby, where Esme watches them while I meet with Carlisle and discuss a plan. Then we bring in the girls, one at a time, and get a rundown on what happened. According to their stories, the girl with the broken nose, Victoria, said something derogatory about Erica during a break. Miss Newton wasn't going to let Miss Nose get the jump on her friend, and so both attacked. Two other girls came to rescue Victoria, but didn't fare well either, and a third joined up on the offensive team, sustaining an injury for her cronies. Both girls promised that it was only an accident that two students hit the sides of the water fountains.

Uh-huh. Well, it looks like I'm going to get to use that paddle today after all.

But first, I want to check on my queasy Swan with the Victorian sensibilities.

I think my day just got _much_ better.

* * *

AN: Thanks to my kick-arse beta, this story's got a customized cover image! Which I so admire. My beta and my story cover.

I adore you readers, too! Hope you liked this latest installation of Mister Masen. Let me know.


	4. Chapter 4

Blood. Aggression. And females.

Don't worry, I got this.

It's these types of conditions in which I feel quite comfortable. Yeah, it's got lots of complicated bits to sort out. But this is a problem I can handle. There's a job to be done here, a situation that needs me to control it. It's messy, however, I'm up for the challenge. I'm actually kind of enjoying myself.

Of course, it doesn't hurt that I've got a personal reward tucked away on a cot in the sickroom. I'll get to that later.

Carlisle decides to drive over to the hospital, to act as angel or papa, or possibly both (but not headmaster—not yet), for the injured students; he's going to bring the girls back to school after treatment. This way we can chat with all the parties involved. From what we've heard so far, it sounds like a couple of the students were only trying to break up the fight, and these will be given the St. Anne's Bellemount version of a Purple Heart—merits for their records. Unfortunately, as thanks for their valor, their faces met forcefully with the metal water fountains, and so they will be wearing less-than-attractive stitches for a while, possibly an eye patch for the one. It's these two and Victoria with the busted snot locker who are in the emergency room.

Esme says she will help with the insurance issues and medical care matters so I can make the necessary calls home, but I'm too concerned for Isabella, who I've left hanging, to bother. Better the calls wait, as well as our culprits, while I check in with my patient.

Charlotte's got two cases in exam, the girl with abdominal pain who is coming down from her panic attack, and another student, Leah Clearwater, who is suffering from injuries inside her mouth—a nasty cut where she bit down on her cheek and two loose teeth in front. We can arrange for a dentist to come out to the school, but in my experience, the teeth, as long as they're left alone and there's no nerve damage, will firm up given time. I suppose the neurotic girl will be okay, too, since I can see her through the slatted blinds absent-mindedly weighing herself on Charlotte's medical scale.

I wander past the reception area to the back room where the beds are. No Swan.

_Shit._ Charlotte must've let her go.

I knock on the window of the exam room and motion for the nurse to come out and talk to me.

She smiles smugly as she pulls the door closed behind her.

"Where's Isabella?" I ask.

"Oh, she was sitting on a cot like a good girl, just like you'd told her to, when I got here—"

My first reaction is to note that Isabella was _sitting_ when I had told her to lie down.

"—although she insisted that she was fine. Which she _was_ until—"

"She's not fine?" I interrupt.

"These two came in with blood on their clothes and then she turned woozy again." Charlotte's eye twinkles as she turns her head to gesture at the students in the infirmary. "Miss Swan wanted out, so I sent her away with a cold compress. I figured it was better to get her away from the source of the nausea."

I groan. "What is up with that?"

"What? The sight of blood makes her feel sick. Not uncommon."

"Not that. She's always downplaying her complaints so she can run away."

"She doesn't like attention, Edward."

"Oh." Yeah, I guess I should have known that.

"Isabella will be fine. I practically had to force a ginger ale down her throat, but she recovered nicely."

"Wait. Ginger ale… Do you have food in here?" She giggles and nods. "Charlotte, you're my savior. I'm starving!" I practically run over to the mini-fridge and snatch a bottle of orange juice. She tosses me a pack of peanut-butter crackers, which I rip into right away. I think I impress Charlotte with my knack for quickly consuming calories.

"Ha! Jeez, Edward. You look almost … _feral!_ You really must have been hungry!"

I have a bad habit of going for long stretches of time without food. I suppose it can make me appear a bit desperate. Certainly the hours of low blood sugar don't help with my moods any.

"Got to keep up my strength," I mumble.

"Here's some granola for dessert then," Charlotte offers, pulling a package from a drawer. "I've got to finish up with these two."

"Okay," I say through a mouthful of food I'm trying to swallow. I take a swig of OJ. "Then send them to the office. Oh, and anticipate a couple of 'code pinks' coming your way later."

"I guessed as much. Give 'em hell, Mr. Masen. They deserve it." She winks.

"Mmm," I grunt. My inner Frankenstein is waving his arms and furrowing his over-large forehead. _"Want Isabella. Want Isabella NOW!"_

* * *

"Gurrrl, you best be tellin' the truth. I know you ain't _that_ ignant." This proclamation is followed by a head roll, full of attitude, and an equally sassy _mmm-hmm_.

Right before my eyes, this educated, intelligent young woman, Michelle Newton, reverts to ghetto speak, and I'm thoroughly, shamelessly entertained.

Michelle is tall and perky (in every sense of the word) and usually quite smiley—beautiful teeth and braided hair. At this passionate moment, she's embraced her black goddess self and the result is pure glamour. Almost like royalty. I want to write her an anthem. Something soulful about how she's overcome the hard knocks of low-income living to be true to herself in the midst of rich, WASPy boarding-school bitches—even if that means she's got to whup one of 'em once in a while. She boldly admitted to Dr. Cullen that she grabbed that "red-headed biatch by the ponytail and punched her in the nose." This was supported by a simulation, whereby we got the message that Victoria was hit repeatedly until her nose was broken.

"At least she's being truthful," Carlisle whispers out the side of his mouth, while keeping it covered with his hand.

As I am mentally composing a soundtrack for Michelle, I didn't realize that my face was split into a big grin and I am laughing silently. Or I am until Carlisle catches me and shoots a look that quickly melts the amusement from my face, even though I still feel it on the inside.

Then a student distracts us by calling another a "twat" and Dr. Cullen steps in, bringing the storytelling to a halt. He's an old hand at this, I can tell. He never raises his voice, and yet the authority in it is stunning.

"We do not use language like that here. Now clean it up and conduct yourselves with proper decorum, or I quit listening to your testimonies and come to my own conclusions." That shuts them up … at least as it pertains to profanities.

I know it's going to sound like I'm picking sides, but I really didn't like this Victoria girl from the start. The way she comes across … it's too innocent, too naive. And it is all put on. With her nose smashed, her voice comes out whiny and childish, accompanied by a flood of crocodile tears. It's bizarre really how antipathetic I am toward her, since she looks a lot like a younger Tanya. Well, Tanya is more of a pinkish blonde, while Victoria's hair is dramatically red; but despite her small stature, Victoria is willowy like my girlfriend. And they share that manipulative gene or whatever the hell it is. It's the one thing I can't stand about her. The only times I've seen Tanya cry, it's been a performance, the goal being to get me to feel bad or to do what she wants me to do. She's been to acting classes, and she knows how to cry on cue. I'm reacting negatively to the same trait I see in this Victoria.

She's telling us that she didn't mean to say anything ugly about Erica, and Michelle is not having it. Perhaps she's got temporary amnesia along with a broken nose, because there is obviously a lot that Victoria isn't 'fessing up to. Or maybe she is just "_that_ ignant," like Michelle had said.

Emmett makes an appearance when his class ends to bring me the coat I'd left in the gym and to plead mercy for Miss Newton (who apparently accomplished the brunt of the damage) because she's on the basketball team.

"But she broke a girl's nose," exclaims Dr. Cullen, after we've stepped outside his office.

"I'm sure she's very sorry for that," Emmett counters.

Yeah, I almost laugh. She was anything but _and_ vocal about it.

I've been quiet up until this point, but here I interject. "I'll _make_ her sorry for it," I say quietly. Then I look to Carlisle. "We could suspend her, but her parents don't have the money to fly her home and back." Michelle had been specially selected for a scholarship because of her outstanding academic prowess, athletic ability, and because she'd prevailed over challenging life circumstances. "I don't think it's good policy to expel a good student like Michelle for defending a friend. I'll take her, Erica, Victoria, and Leah in my office straightaway … unless you want me to wait for the injuries to heal. From what I can tell, those are the girls who participated in the fighting. Victoria was more words than action, but she obviously riled them on purpose. All four students will be on probation for next three months."

Carlisle thinks for a moment and then nods. "I like it. No, I don't think we need to take the injuries into account; they've been treated and it's been a couple of hours since. But make the probation last until the end of the school year. If anything happens between now and then, they're going home. Michelle and Victoria will see you _again_ in three days." He looks at me pointedly.

Harsh, but reasonable. I can live with that.

We all nod in agreement and Emmett thanks us for the leniency. He leans over to me and asks, "How's the police chief's spawn—uh, I mean _Swan?_"

"I think she'll be okay. Was she behaving a bit … funny to you before the fight broke out?"

"I guess you could say that. It's more freakish than funny. I tell ya, she's a danger to herself and others. I cringe whenever she comes close to piece of sports equipment."

"Clumsy?"

"Yeah. Clumsy, awkward, off-balance … _trouble_. You might want to restrict her to plastic knives in the dining hall, or somebody might get cut."

"I get the picture. Thanks, Em."

Following this, Dr. Cullen explains the terms of the probation to the applicable students hanging out in his office. Carlisle had been quite effective with his "shameful-display-of-behavior-unfitting-for-young- women-wearing-the-St.-Anne's-crest" lecture, and as a result the mood in the room is somber.

"Miss Newton, Miss York, Miss James, and Miss Clearwater, go with Mr. Masen. The rest of you may fetch your things." He raises a finger. "I do not want to hear about any further fighting between you, nor will I be pleased to see the slightest negative report from any of your instructors. Have I made myself clear?"

After an uncomfortable group affirmation, I collect my four and send Victoria and Leah off to the nurse while Michelle and Erica sit to wait with Esme. Classes are ending now, so I think during the lull I'll go look for my missing Swan.

I find her unsuccessfully grabbing things from her locker. A book slips from her hand and falls to the floor. She sighs, picks up the volume, and pulls a phone from her backpack. She fools with it, texting I suppose, and stuffs it back into her bag's front pocket. I wonder who she's contacting. I imagine it might be that Motorcycle Mike, or whatever his name is. Maybe asking for a ride home.

A flash of anger seizes me, and before I know what I'm doing, I fly up behind her and give her a sharp smack on the seat of her skirt.

She yelps and flips around, rubbing her backside while her face contorts with rage. She sees it's me and a wave of confusion, surprise, and—do I see awe?—courses wildly within her gaze.

She looks around to see who saw and hisses under her breath. "Did you just _spank_ me?"

Her indignation further piques my irritation. I explode. Well, I explode in as subtle a way as possible, since there are students in the hall and I don't want to attract attention either.

I'm whispering with severity. "If you were not feeling ill, I would take you over my knee right here and give you a real spanking. I guess it's lucky you're so easily nauseated." Then I can't help but continue to give validity to my words, "You're not supposed to have a phone in here."

She's frozen—a deer in headlights.

Just the possibility of what I'm saying is arousing me, while at the same time, I'm being rattled by guilt.

She stammers for a moment, the blush deepening. "I'm telling my dad," she threatens, looking much like an angry kitten.

"Telling him what? That you can't do as you're told and you need a good spanking? Don't bother. I'll call him for you."

Her chin was set in a kind of stubborn defiance and yet her expression was sheepish.

"Are you feeling better?" I demand. "Because we can take care of that now."

"No, I don't feel well." Her reply rushes out. Isabella is a really bad liar, speaking too hurriedly and peeking around as if looking for an opportune escape. She's biting her lip now.

"Follow me then. I want to talk to you." I turn away and walk, knowing that she will follow. I hear her close the locker and I imagine she's toting the backpack across one shoulder with her head down. Then I hear her accidentally drop the backpack, confirming my mental vision.

On the way to my office, I realize what I've done. I struck a student in anger … _in the hallway._ This is bad. And she's the police chief's daughter.

Oh, yeah. I'm going to jail.

_Okay. It's okay, Masen._ I'm going to pretend that it was justified and continue. I'll act like this is all normal. Everyday stuff.

I wonder what is up with my mood swings. Maybe I'm going through Ke$ha withdrawal, I realize, as Lauren's iPod is in my coat pocket and I've not heard "Crazy Kids" in like sixteen hours.

Isabella looks up at me when we reach the lobby, frightened little lamb eyes large.

"Wait here," I say, pointing with my eyes to the seat next to Erica. I don't know why, but I want her to hear what's going to happen behind my office door. It might do her some good to know what I'm capable of.

Esme speaks up. "I sent both Miss James and Miss Clearwater in already. I didn't think it was a good idea to keep the two factions together."

"You're right, Ms. Platt. Thank you. You can go ahead and dispatch Miss York and Miss Newton to see the nurse."

I stride into my office, giving the door a mighty shove to close as I pass through. I push a potted tree away from one corner.

"Miss Clearwater, come stand here, facing the wall, please." I've not had two students in here at once before, but God knows what would happen if I sent Leah out there to sit with Michelle and Erica. I figure a time out in the corner is appropriate.

Victoria's lip is trembling while she watches. "Can I call my mom?" she cries.

"Not just yet."

"B-b-b-but, sir…"

Out of patience for her blubbering, I open my door again and call out. "Ms. Platt. Will you please come in here?" She gives a serious nod and floats past me, while I'm holding the door. After closing it again, I crouch in front of Victoria's chair and grab her elbows.

"It's going to be all right. You started a fight, and now you will pay for that. It will be painful, but I won't hurt you anywhere close to how your shattered sinuses must feel." That makes me think of something. "Miss James, did they give you a narcotic at the hospital?" When she looks confused, I clarify, "Did you swallow a pill for the pain?"

Sniff. "Oh, yeah. I think so."

"Then you probably won't feel a thing." I stand up, turn around, and roll my eyes so Esme can see. Then, since I will be using my arm for the four marathon beatings to come, I unbutton my shirt at the wrist and roll up the sleeve. Then I pick up the paddle off my desk, grab Victoria's hand, and haul her to the couch, yanking down her shorts. "Ms. Platt is here to hold your hand and make it all better when you're ready…"

Pause that.

I don't need to bore you with the details of what happens next. You already know how it goes, I'm sure, or you can imagine. I'll just say that Victoria very predictably cries a lot, but when the discomfort of the spanking turns to be too much for her, I believe I see some of the viciousness that she had been covering up. She isn't so stoned that the punishment has no effect. Good.

Then I take Leah over my knee, sending Victoria to the corner. Leah's from the La Push reservation not far from St. Anne's. Usually for day students, I go easy, thinking that a worser punishment might be waiting for them when they get home. However, considering the violence that occurred this afternoon in the gymnasium, I give her hell, like Charlotte had advised.

Esme escorts the girls out once they are ladylike again. Michelle and Erica follow.

I'm well aware of the hypocrisy of hitting a student who is in trouble for … well, _hitting a student._ In my head, I tell myself that it's a suitable consequence. If you start throwing punches in the "real world," I guess you have to be prepared to get hit by somebody bigger and stronger than you. To feel a little better about my duty, I do toss in my own lecture for good measure about solving conflict with words instead of fists. Free of charge. From my own experience. That's just how much I care.

And since I _don't_ care to go into the particulars of this scene, I'm going to take a moment here to give you my observations about girls' bodies … having gotten up close and personal with a lot of partially unclothed girls today. Depending on the young woman's development, her ass (the end I'm staring at all the fucking time) at this age might still be rather narrow and lean, _or_ more curvy and full. Some girls have held onto a bit of baby chubbiness, while others are womanly, with wide hips and rounded buttocks. And still other girls are like rails, no curves at all. I think I've seen it all.

And yet, I can't decide who to feel more sorry for: the skinny girl who is taking the blow over and over again in the same space, or the girl who's got junk in the trunk, so to speak, and more area to cover.

Well, I know which _I_ prefer, and I look forward to seeing what's under Isabella's skirt.

Only that won't be today.

"Ms. Platt, will you please send Miss Swan in," I say after the justice proceedings wrap up. I still have the little girl's file on my desk from yesterday, so I pull it out from under my reports.

A moment later, a wobbly Isabella enters and immediately catches her foot on the leg of the chair, nearly hitting her chin on the edge of my desk. She rights herself and sits before doing anymore damage to herself or her surroundings. She looks at my hands and bites her lip.

"Am I in trouble?" she asks, timid. I see her notice the paddle that rests by my elbow. I like her timidity. She knows what I've been doing in here for the past half hour or so. Did she like it? Is she intimidated?

"No. I want to go over your requirements while you're here. I won't keep you."

"You're not calling Char—I mean, my dad?"

Oh, if this isn't classic troubled teenaged girl, calling her father by his first name! No wonder she's hanging out with some bastard with a motorcycle. Crack cocaine will be next if we don't curb this rebellion now.

"Not unless you want me to…"

She shakes her head. I stare at her, wondering if she's going to tell _on me_. What will I do if she does?

"You still look kind of pale. How are you getting home?" _It better not be on the back of a motor bike…_

"My truck is here."

_Truck? _"And you're okay to drive?"

"Yeah."

_Yes, sir._

"Will your father be home when you get there?" _Are you supervised after school hours?_

"No. Not until late. But I'll be fine."

"Are you usually alone after school?" _Say "yes," Isabella._

"Yes."

_Say "yes, _sir,_ Isabella."_

"Uh, I wanted to talk to you about maybe adding an extracurricular activity or two to your week. Colleges like things like that."

"Oh."

"Is there something—a hobby maybe—that you enjoy? St. Anne's offers a diverse number of clubs and activities."

Her discomfort is visible. "Mmmm… I like to read."

_Remember, it's not you, Masen. She just doesn't like attention._

"No sports?"

"No!" she practically yells.

"Horseback riding too then?"

She shakes her head with a grimace.

"Swimming?" No. "Choir?" No. "Theater?"

"I'm a horrible actress."

_I believe it._

"Do you play an instrument?"

"Uh-uh."

"Oh, what about ballroom dancing?"

She looks at me like I've betrayed her to the Inquisition. I try not to smile when I realize that the last lesson a clumsy girl would want to take would be a dance class. _That's a no then._

"I got it. What about self-defense?"

She tilts her head. "Possibly…"

I use the mouse to find the schedule on my computer. "It's on Thursdays at four o'clock. You ought to give it a go this week. They won't care if you try it out first."

"Maybe. I don't want to hurt anybody though."

"I'll make sure to warn the instructor, Sam—tell him you're coming." _Tell him about your special needs._

"Okay. Is—is that all?"

"For now."

She stands to leave. _Don't go._

"May I ask you a question?" she murmurs.

"Yes."

"What did you mean when you said that I can't do as I'm told?"

_You caught that, huh?_ "Um… I meant that I'd told you to lie down in the sickroom and you weren't there when I came back for you."

Her brow crinkles and this crease forms above her nose. "Are you always so … detail-oriented?"

I think before I answer. "Yes." This is not something I'm used to doing, but instinct overrules reason. "I'm sorry for … laying into you like I did. It's been a hard day. I don't know why, but I feel overly protective of you. I guess because you're new. But if you tell your father or Dr. Cullen—"

"I won't tell anybody," Isabella says hastily. This time I know she's not lying.

"Thank you," I say, a bit off-kilter.

"Thank you for rescuing me today."

_Ah, she remembers her manners._

"You're welcome, Miss Swan."

She deliberately moves around the furniture with care to exit. But before she leaves, she turns to me again.

"Mr. Masen?"

_Call me Edward. _"Hm?"

"You were wrong. I _can_ do as I'm told. When it's in my best interest to do so—" and as an afterthought she adds "—sir." Then she stumbles out my door while I'm left to shut my jaw.

* * *

AN: I can't tell you how thrilled I am to have over a hundred follows on this story! Thank you all so much for supporting this work. I adore reading your reactions, so don't be shy about reviewing or PMing me.

Thanks also to my beta—what I would do without her, I don't know. Probably hate myself.

One of you asked to see Bella's version of happenings thus far. If others of you are interested, please don't hesitate to let me know. I'm seriously considering it, since I would also like to see what's going on in the little Swan's head.


	5. Chapter 5

AN: People! I am so sorry! I have NEVER left a story for this long before (two months—ah!), and I promise that extenuating circumstances are to blame. My fantasy life all but disappeared. And without my imagination, St. Anne's and its temperamental assistant headmaster don't exist. I assure you, we are all back to normal (or my twisted version of normal) and in working order.

As a concession and an offering of repentance, I am posting a separate story later today for those of you who care to read Bella's perspective. There is a bit of a mystery in this chapter that is brought to light in "Mister Masen's Little Swan," so even if you are not interested, you might want to check out the ending.

Thank you for reading and your continued support of this work. (It means so much!) Please feel free to review/PM me and bust my arse for temporarily abandoning Mister Masen in his time of need. I have been issued a yellow slip and will be reporting to the office for my comeuppance. So very sorry.

* * *

_Was she flirting with me?_

How many times in my life have I asked myself _that_ question? Certainly never about a student before. I don't mean to say that no student has ever flirted with me. Quite the opposite is true. The difference being that it's usually pretty unmistakable when a teenage girl is flirting with you, even when she's trying to be subtle. But with Isabella … not so obvious.

Christ.

As the beat from the controversial "Blurred Lines" occupies the background noise of my mind (_hey, hey, hey, hey_), it's as if my predatory will overcomes any reasoning that might have reestablished my self-control.

_You know you want it, Isabella._

I know _I_ want it. And I know I shouldn't.

Something happened. I must admit to you the wrong that I have done, in my state of mental lapse. Not that I'm not completely to blame, but I swear this to you—it was as if my hand moved, having a determination of its own. I watched impassively as it ripped a sheet of note paper from my scratch pad, took hold of my ink pen, and scrawled a message. Then my feet and body reacted in accordance, when they really shouldn't have, shuttling myself—mind left somewhere in blank space, silently singing, "I'm gonna take a good girl…"—down the corridor to the lockers for day students.

There it was. Number 13. Lucky or unlucky? (Lucky for me … maybe.) I don't know, but I do know, regretfully in retrospect, that I slipped the note through the vent slats of Locker No. 13 and heard it fall. Audibly light as a pin, and yet my heart dropped heavy as a anvil inside my chest.

Then I wandered back to my office, where I pace, trying not to think about the message and instead focus enough to make the phone calls made necessary by this unusual day's demands.

_Back to work, Masen. You've let this girl foul you up enough. _

I recapture my senses and call the parents of the students who had received disciplinary correction this afternoon. Esme—my saving angel—already called the others involved in the fallout, in addition to sorting out the insurance shit for the hospital. (The Forks Community Hospital ought to pay _us_ for that catastrophe; it's nothing but sniffles and fevers on an ordinary day, and I don't see what job satisfaction there might be in treating mold allergies.)

Harry Clearwater, Leah's father, has a voice like gunpowder; I would be intimidated perhaps, except I recognize that underneath the flat, slightly dangerous baritone, the man is joking with me, and I instantly jive with his dry sense of humor. That in itself is a verifiable wonder. The fact that he doesn't overreact about Leah's punishment—a miracle. Overall it is a satisfactory conversation.

Victoria's mother, on the other hand, is not as pleasant. No surprise there. The woman already knows what happened, because as soon as I let her go, her daughter had phoned her first. Of course, Ms. James is reacting to Victoria's version of the events, and she is not happy, neither about her daughter's injury nor about the paddling. I keep this chat to a minimum.

I reach an answering machine at the Newtons, and Mrs. Miller-York is appropriately concerned for her daughter, but not at all officious, thank God.

After those delightful tasks, I phone my mother to tell her to check her mailbox tomorrow because Esme is Fed-Exing the enrollment papers for Ness. She doesn't sound content or grateful … or relieved even. She sounds like she's expected me to execute her orders all along. That attitude of hers eats at me.

(At least I manage to talk her out of flying here with Nessie. She insists on coming until I promise twice that I will pick my sister up at Sea-Tac as soon as her flight is due to arrive at its gate.)

I call Tanya then (only because we phone every day—it's our bicoastal commitment) and get her voicemail greeting. At the beep, I lower my voice and speak, slow and monotone: "Tahhhnnnyahhh. This is your conscience speaking. Call your boyfriend, or he's going to think you've forgotten about him." Then in my regular voice, I add, "Wait an hour and call my mobile. I won't be in the office." _Click._

Then I am left to brood over the secret I dropped in Locker No. 13.

I'm such a fool.

Well, secrets have their way of coming out, don't they? No matter how we try to lock the vault and sit on the lid, the essence of the thing is going to emerge in some form or another. Maybe this is good, though. It's rather freeing in a way, if I choose to look at it in a favorable light. She'll see the note, discern the implications, bright girl that she is, and then… Then what?

Then Miss Swan will know that I'm a deviant monster and then she'll stay clear of me. That's what a sensible girl would do.

Unfortunately, I get the feeling that Miss Swan is _not_ a sensible girl. Intelligent, yes. Prudent … ha! No. Not when some oversexed dog on a motorbike is hanging about for her on a restricted campus. Does she even wear a helmet when she's hugging his abdomen (_What rhymes with "hug me"?_) and straddling his hips?

Hold it right there, Masen.

Why am I saying these things? I can't judge. I hardly know Miss Isabella—*opens file on desk and scans paper*—_Marie_ Swan. What stupid thing has she done that would make me think these things? She _happened_ to end up back with her dad, who _happens_ to live in Forks; in Forks, she _happened_ to be awarded a scholarship to a school where the headmaster is a freak, and she _happens_ to be the type of good girl for whom he's been looking to act out his sick fantasies. That's hardly her fault. She can't help who her dad is and where he lives. She can't help that I'm … who I am. _I'm_ the one being careless. Miss Swan merely suffers from your generic case of bad luck. In the wrong place at the wrong time.

I can get the note out if I want. I have access to the universal key that opens all the student lockers here. It might be harder to do that without anybody seeing, however. I would need an excuse to be in a student's personal space, in case I get caught.

But I've decided to leave it. Out of context it wouldn't mean anything really. Nobody actually knows what went on between us, and the girl isn't telling.

Yeah. I believe her. Maybe I bumped my head falling off the couch last night. (Yeah, not _that_ head, you sicko. Why don't you get _your_ head out of the gutter.) And damned if I know why, but I believe her. I saw it in her eyes. She was resolved.

Fuck. I'd better start feeding myself properly if I'm going to be messing with Miss Swan. I'll have to have my wits about me. She consistently manages to incite my temper, and I'll need quick reflexes in case I've got to push her out of the way of a hurtling car, save her from a rapist … or a vampire … or something.

Speaking of food… I am starving. I want flesh. Something thick and tender to sink my teeth into.

I want a ten-ounce top sirloin from the Forks Coffee Shop.

And since I can't seem to find my own head, maybe I can borrow someone else's. If I could take my pick of any mind I'd like to read, it would be the one behind those enigmatic brown eyes. But since she's unavailable at the moment—and probably jailbait—I know the next best psyche to hide in. Where I can find clarity, acceptance … and quiet.

* * *

As I slide behind the wheel of the Volvo, I notice that mother-fucking ticket, courtesy the city of Forks, and nearly growl. I take some deep breaths, connect my phone to the car charger, and drive to the athletic department, parking near the entrance to the weight rooms. Once inside the building, I make my way to a mirrored dance studio off the main hallway. When I open the door, it's like stepping into a Bollywood musical. Fast-paced Indian music pumps through the main speakers, reverberating contrapuntally in my chest and lending, I suppose, to an overall feeling of well-being and charisma. I don't want my presence to disturb the energy, or whatever the hell it is that's going on, since I mostly elicit reactions of anxiety within the people here. In an effort to be inconspicuous, I lean against the back of the room, hands in my pockets, propping up the sole of my left shoe to help support my weight on the wall.

There are nearly thirty young women on the floor, sprawled on colored mats, balancing on their stomachs. Their legs are bent behind their heads and they grip their ankles. Little Miss Alice Brandon is in front of the room, in the same pose, perpendicular to the others, who face her profile. She's acting as the visual example, I suppose, for the students to imitate. Her yoga mat is lavender—which matches her panties, I realize with amusement.

I'm surprised to see her here. In fact, I've never seen Alice so _still_. And she didn't strike me as the yoga "type," since I've only ever seen her eat ice cream. Ever.

Jasper steps slowly around the mats, checking postures and gently correcting. He's still wearing his khakis and collared shirt from the teaching day, however, the necktie is loose, top collar button open, and his feet are bare.

"Pay attention to your breathing, honey." "You might want to try pulling your feet away from your head, as though you're a loaded spring." "That's it. Good." Then he walks soundlessly to stand beside Alice, from where he addresses the room. "Almost there, ladies. Remember, we are working the belly, which increases will power. You can stop patterns of behavior that are bad for you and make better choices starting today. Say no to the things that don't work for you and yes to the things that can change your life." He is looking down fondly at the top of Alice's head.

Jasper manipulates a tiny remote in his hand, and the drums cease while the music alters. This is another Eastern Indian arrangement—twangy with a slow, dreamy rhythm, mostly cymbals and pipes.

"All right. Come down, let go of your ankles, and relax. Rock your hips from side to side, taking deep breaths. Relax your diaphragm. Good. Now come up to sitting position and meditate with me."

As he gives this direction, he drops to sit cross-legged on his own blue mat next to Alice's, while his wrists—palms facing up—rest on his knees, the index fingers tucked under the thumbs, just like in every parody of yoga you've ever seen.

The girls mimic him.

You know, I don't think I've met a more interesting guy. Jasper. Originally hailing from Houston, Texas, he enlisted in the military as a young man and deployed to Fallujah, and Afghanistan after that. If you look close enough, you will notice the physical scars resulting from his tours of combat. There are quite a lot of marks, including a particularly vicious disfigurement across his throat. As for the emotional wounds… Well, I can only guess. For all the seeming serenity and poise, I think I detect demons lurking in the back of his overconfident gaze. There must be a reason he's a history teacher at an all-girls private school in the utmost country of the Pacific Northwest. You can't get much more remote.

"Keeping your eyelids closed, I want you to point your eyes up toward your forehead—like you're looking between your eyebrows. This will stimulate the pituitary gland, which in yoga represents the _third eye_. Mental discernment, ladies, is what we're achieving. Having your third eye open, you will be able to see the implications of every decision…."

Alice is wearing a smug smile, as if she knows a secret. I wonder what she is _seeing_ with her third eye and why it's entertaining her. I'm proud of myself for letting her get away without a spanking this afternoon; if I hadn't, this meditation would be a pain in the ass for her, and I might feel a little bit bad about that.

The session concludes after everyone is given ample time to activate their third eye (I even attempt this myself, but I don't see anything other than the inside of my eyelids), and the music is cut.

Jasper heartily agrees to head to the Coffee Shop with me, and he sits down on the floor again to put on his socks and boots. There are girls rolling and stowing away mats with laughter and murmuring. Even my being here doesn't ruin the mood.

"You sure Maria won't mind?" I ask Jasper, hesitating. I would be a complete idiot to put myself on that woman's bad side. Jasper's girlfriend is … uh, well….

"Nah," he says, looking up at me. "She's at a planning meeting tonight. You have any idea what it's about?"

That's right; I'd forgotten. "Oh, yeah. She and Carmen are organizing a proposal to be approved by the trustees. They want to take students abroad for a combined Spanish and art class trip."

"I think I heard something about that. Do you think it's a good idea?" He sounds skeptical.

"No, actually. If this goes through, I'm going to propose a few specific chaperones to go along. You being one."

"I would agree to that." Properly booted up, he stands and claps his hands, smiling broadly. "Well, knowing how those two can talk, the meeting will probably last till dawn, so I'm good for at least a couple of hours."

That's when Alice pops up—and I mean that literally. She wasn't there, then suddenly, she bursts between us. "Will you be at Compline then, sir?" she asks Jasper, bouncing on her toes.

"Oh, sure. Why not."

"Really?!"

"Really. I'll see you tonight, madame."

He bows. She giggles.

"I promise to return your yogi to you in one piece," I say, hand on my heart. "Oh, hey. Miss Brandon, a question for you: Do you have a roommate?"

"Yes, sir. It's Angela. Angela Webber. Why do you ask?"

"We're getting a new student. She's younger than you, but I've got to find a space for her."

"All the dorms are filled except for Rainier."

"You're in Cascades?" She nods. _Hmm._ Angela Webber will be moving out next week, but Alice wouldn't know anything about that. She's eyeing me, however, in a suspicious way that makes me think she knows more than she's letting on. "All right. I'll think on it. Thanks, Miss Brandon."

"No problem." She turns to Jasper. "Mr. Whitlock, doesn't Mr. Masen look sharp today?"

He regards me with a side glance. "Now that you mention it, yeah. This look reminds me of that music video by Fun."

I groan. "Another boy band?"

"Not—really. Well, yeah, okay. Technically by definition."

"The idea was to emulate _The Great Gatsby_," I contend. "I was going for enduring literature, not trendy pop music."

"Uh-huh." Jasper considers me. "You need to open up to your inner boy band, Masen. It's the darkness in you that just might be the enduring part. Let it come to the light. Don't resist."

"Your Jedi tricks will not work on me, Master Whitlock. I'm _too_ far gone to the dark side."

It's crowded tonight in the diner, which is really more like a family restaurant than a coffee shop, but it is the only eating establishment in town. All the seats at the counter are taken, so we scoot into a blue vinyl booth. Jasper and I order sodas and entrees from an anorexic waitress, who provokes conflicting reactions within me. I don't know if I want to reject her outright or tie her skinny ass to a chair so I can force-feed her. When she turns around and tucks the pad into her back pocket, I notice her jeans slide down, revealing prominent hips and backbone, and I think sadly of Angela Webber.

"You can order a beer if you want, Masen. No need to go dry for my sake."

Jasper had told me before that he'd had a problem with drinking after he returned stateside, and so he didn't touch alcohol these days.

"Not necessary. It was a hard day, but I feel plenty relaxed now. It's good to be away from campus."

"Tell me about the fight today," he says bluntly.

I roll my eyes. Around St. Anne's, gossip takes off faster than a bride's nightie—or a prom dress, whichever you prefer. "What do you already know?"

"Everything. Alice Brandon told me. But I want to hear it again from you."

"You know that Victoria James, right? Third year. Redhead from Seattle. Yeah. She said something about Erica York that Michelle Newton didn't appreciate."

"Well, I can guess what kind of something that was," he interrupts.

"You can? Tell me. The girls were all very discreet about whatever it was."

"You don't know about Michelle and Erica?"

I shake my head, confused.

"They're a couple. Most likely, the thing Victoria said was something derogatory about Erica's sexual orientation."

I sit back, stunned by my lack of intuition in this matter. Now that Jasper's said it, it makes perfect sense. Being an all-girls school, St. Anne's inspires its little romances, and sometimes—rarely, but it happens, as I understand—these flings turn serious and the couple becomes a long-running partnership. We have various teachers and staff members who post a special symbol—it's a purple triangle—outside their classrooms or office doors. This signals that the adult has taken a special sensitivity training course and is available to talk if a student is seeking help or counseling about their sexuality. I wasn't really allowed to because of my position, but Jasper is one of our faculty who posts the triangle on his door.

This new information kind of makes me hate Victoria a bit more. _And_ her overbearing mother, who couldn't believe that I would have the audacity to punish her daughter. "My Tori wouldn't say anything hurtful. I'm sure this is a misunderstanding." Well, guess what, lady? Your Tori is a bitch—almost as bad as her mother—and I blistered her pasty, whiny backside for it.

I swear, these entitled parents must have no idea that when they chew my ass about something I tend to take it out on their child. I can't help it, and you would think people would expect it. It's like how Tanya admitted to me that when customers are rude to her during the morning rush, she gives them decaf. It's almost the same concept.

Our skeleton server arrives with our dinner plates and Jasper and I quiet to consume our meals.

Her third eye must have seen me thinking about her, because just as I take my first bite, my barely alive cell phone chimes and Tanya's image floats up on the screen.

"Jazz, man, do you mind if I pick up? It's Tanya…."

"No, go ahead."

I push the answer button.

"Well, well, well, Miss Petrovsky. And where might you have—"

"Edward! What are you doing right now?"

"I'm eating dinner with Jasper."

Her pressured speech changes to brief curiosity. "Oh, what are you eating?"

I looked at my plate of medium rare and mashed potatoes. "Salad."

"Good boy. So you're sitting down?"

"Yeah. What is it?"

"I GOT THE PART!" she shrieks.

I smile, holding the phone away from my head until my eardrum can accommodate her volume. Jasper chuckles.

"I knew you would."

"I know, finally! I'm so happy! You must come back to New York after rehearsals and see me this spring. You can sit with my parents and sisters. Jasper can come too, if he likes. Because I'm so brilliant." She sings this last sentence, opera-style.

"I'm sure you are. Of course, I'll come. Opening night, if possible. I was hoping you would be able to come out here, though. I wanted to show you around, take you to the Empress Hotel in Victoria for high tea—"

"Oh, Edward. I can't!" Her voice changes abruptly from disappointed to elated. "Rehearsals are almost nightly until the show opens!"

"Maybe when you get a break, then."

"I'll see you when you come here. Listen, I gotta go."

"Okay. I'm proud of you, cat."

"I'm in love with you, Edward," she breathes. "You're the only one who didn't tell me to get a real career."

"Aren't we glad of that now, hm? Okay. Call me tomorrow at 7 your time."

I click off and focus back on Jasper, who is smirking at me.

"She sounds like a piece of work," he says.

"She is. But you're one to talk. Maria makes more students cry in one day than even I can. I'm almost afraid of her."

"You and me both, brother."

Not so. I'd seen Jasper silence his worked-up Latina girlfriend on a tirade with a short censoring glance. He was the only individual who could talk sense to her when she was hot under the collar.

"I suppose you made right many students cry today," Jasper comments.

"Yeah. I smacked a lot of tail this afternoon. Personal record actually. _And_ I let one student go with a free pass."

"How generous of you. What's that saying…? The beatings will continue until morale improves…"

I chuckle. "Yes, supposedly that is the philosophy at St. Anne's Bellemount. We ought to have it engraved on the sign. To be honest, sometimes I wonder if it's wrong…" As much as I look forward to doling out that particular medicine, I have been having my doubts of late.

"It keeps order," he says with a shrug. "And you can't complain because everybody wants your job."

_They do?_

"You need some ice for that hand?"

"Thankfully no. Ms. Platt gave me a paddle this morning."

Jasper's eyebrows shoot up. "I love it when you talk dirty, Edward."

"Shut up. Esme and I are only friends. And I'm fond of the paddle."

"Talk about good timing."

"I think Dr. Cullen either gave it to her to give to me or he asked her to purchase it. Although where you buy that sort of thing, I don't know—"

"Ebay."

"Right. I should have thought of that. She seemed kind of embarrassed about it."

Jasper chews his fish and chips for a bit before revealing more about Esme. "You know she's an alumna right?"

_What?_ "No, I didn't know that. It couldn't have been that long ago that she graduated. She's my age."

Suddenly something stutters in my mind. I wonder if she ever received correction in the headmaster's office. Did Esme Platt make mischief in the hallowed halls of St. Anne's Bellemount? Holy shit. If she graduated within the past ten years, her records would still be in the files. I can find out tomorrow, if I want.

I suck in a gulp of air as I come to another realization. "Dr. Cullen was her headmaster," I mumble.

"Yep."

This takes some time to absorb. "Okay, but she didn't graduate and start working for the school, right?"

"The way I understand it, she had a full ride at the Milwaukee Institute of Art. Interior design, I reckon, or architecture or something."

"No kidding." I rub the stubble on my chin.

"She was married, too," Jasper slips casually. "But she's divorced. It was after the marriage ended that Dr. Cullen hired her to take care of admin for him."

Okay, why would a promising art student come back to her high school to work as an office professional? What secrets might this young secretary be keeping?

"Esme bakes cookies at Dr. Cullen's house during the day," I say flatly. "I ate some last night. They were really good—oatmeal chocolate-chip."

"Well, sure. Carlisle has a terrific sweet tooth. Didn't you notice?"

A lot had slipped my notice lately. But yeah, I guess I can see that. He keeps a jar of lemon drops on his desk for students who drop by, but mostly I've caught him dipping into the stash.

"There's more to it than that." I know it and Jasper knows it; I can tell. "You told me that Carlisle was a closet homosexual."

"No, I told you that most people _think_ he's gay. He's not."

"Okay… So is there something going on between Carlisle and Esme?"

He doesn't answer, but his wink says it all.

I slap the table and can't hide my humor. "She was a student!" I exclaim in a stage-whisper. "Nobody can know about this. It's too…"

"Scandalous?"

I nod.

"I know. Which is exactly why the gay facade works for Carlisle. In all truth, I'm not a gay man, but if I were," he raises a finger, "that Carlisle Cullen would be serious eye candy." Jasper wears a shit-eating grin.

I fall back in the booth and laugh, shaking my head. "Oh, my God."

Suddenly there's a spectacular crash behind us when a bus boy drops a tub full of dishes. Jasper swings around, a wild, dangerous look replacing the placid composure that usually resides on his face. I can see he's beginning to panic and, having seen anxiety attacks before, realize what's happening.

"Hey, it was only glass…. Jazz?"

He looks apologetic and also unnerved, as if the booth is going to crush him. "I gotta get out of here."

"Go! Now. I'll find you later."

He slips away.

I urgently achieve the attention of our server, and she hands me our ticket. I leave some cash on the table for a tip—maybe she'll buy herself a feeding tube—and go to the register to pay the bill.

Outside, I can't find him right away and it's already very dark. I start to walk, somewhat critically, along the sidewalk, peering as far as I can see down the street and in between buildings. If I were a fucked-up combat vet with PTSD in Forks, where would I hide…?

On the opposite curb, I notice a young Quileute man behind the wheel of a thirty-year-old red Volkswagen hatchback. He's squinting, trying to catch my eye, but I don't have time to engage in some dumb fuck's aggressive stance. I nod curtly and keep walking. The stupid wannabe badass is wearing a wife-beater in this weather. He's probably got a personality disorder and an addiction to steroids. Anyway, he's just a kid. If he tries anything, I could tan his hide.

I finally spy Jasper, a block and a half away from the restaurant and on a parallel street. He's sitting against a brick wall with his head between his knees.

"You okay, man?" I ask, still some distance away. I want him to acknowledge my presence before I get closer. Who could say? Jasper might know fifty-six ways to kill a man with his bare hands. I don't want to find out.

Haunted eyes meet mine. "I'm so sorry, Edward." He's pulling at the ends of his hair, his fingers jittery.

"No. Don't be sorry."

"I saw dudes—my buddies—decapitated, blown to bits by IEDs, mutilated by bullets…"

"You don't have to explain. Do you have meds you need to take?"

"At home."

"I can drive you."

"Nah. I can chill. I've learned to come down on my own. But, about every three months, if something doesn't trigger a fucking attack! I'm really embarrassed."

"I get it, man. Don't torture yourself."

"Just don't leave me."

"I'm staying right by your side, Jazz. But why don't we go back to school?"

He agrees and we manage the walk back to my car without incident. The red Volkswagen is gone, I notice.

"This is right decent of you, Masen."

"Don't mention it. I think you'll feel better back in familiar territory." I look over at him in the passenger seat. He's broken, but he's coping. "You know, I thought about going into the military. I wanted to serve my country. Mostly I wanted out of my parents' house."

"Really? I thought you were a musician."

"Yeah, but I wanted to be a medic. A Navy corpsman or something."

"Why didn't you?"

"My mother ragged me about it." He raises his eyebrows at me. "You'd have to meet her to understand." I park close to the chapel on campus. "Should we get Maria?"

"I told a certain young lady that I would be at Compline tonight. Let's leave Maria and Carmen to their carrying on, and you and I can confess our sins and go to sleep with a clear conscience."

As I respond, "That sounds good," I think with ambivalence how impossible that would be for me.

* * *

Carlisle is the celebrant tonight. Since Forks is such a small town, the local parish uses St. Anne's chapel as its church (when it isn't joining St. Andrews in Port Angeles). Our boarders are required to attend Sunday mornings, as well as certain special Eucharists and collects throughout the year (such as Ash Wednesday and Evensong). A weekly Compline is held before curfew, and there are a handful of town folks in the pew boxes, but it's mostly students. For a majority of the services, the parish rector conducts, but on occasion, Carlisle is given the honor.

He looks like Gabriel himself with his white hooded robe, blond hair combed back and to the side of his face, partially illuminated by candlelight and partially in shadow.

_You devil,_ I think, not without admiration. _Does she live with you, you sneaky bastard? _

Taking a cursory review of the chapel's occupants, I gauge which students are cool with me, which are in love with me, which are cross with me. Rosalie Hale makes a point of turning her nose up after holding my gaze intensely. Leaning forward, Alice smiles from across the aisle and flutters her fingers in greeting. I smile back. I go out of my way to make eye contact with Michelle, Erica, and Victoria. The former two look chagrined, but they acknowledge my nods; the latter pretends not to see me. Of course, Leah has gone home and is not in attendance. Neither is Isabella.

We kneel and ask God Almighty to forgive our wrongs committed against him—"in thought, word, and deed, by what we have done, and by what we have left undone"—

I remember the note.

_I'm gonna take a good girl…_

My stomach starts to rumble uncomfortably at that thought. Then I'm seized by an intense cramping, which makes me double over in my seat. Unfortunately, it seems that the steak is not sitting well with me. Isabella's giving me irritable bowels now. That's swell. Exactly what I need.

Carlisle gives a reading from the Psalms—"If I make my bed in the depths, you are there…"—and a collect after that. Short and sweet. Which is good, because I'm going to need to find a toilet, and soon.

"You okay," Jasper whispers from the side of his mouth.

"I should have had the salad," I grunt.

I look down and try to think of anything except for my digestive problems. I notice the kneeler at my feet and I imagine how lovely Isabella would look, kneeling here, eyes closed, hands pressed together between her breasts. Then I take it too far and visualize her bent over the kneeler, nude. She is looking back at me, doe-eyed and anxious.

_You know you want it._

What _is_ it that I want? What is it that _she_ wants?

The pressure in my lower abdomen somehow blends with this vision of the Swan girl. This is my own brand of panic attack, I think, recalling Jasper's hyperventilation and overwhelming urge to escape. Carlisle's eyes linger on me, no doubt impressed by my contrition, and he calls us all to stand. I start to perspire as another cramp clutches my intestines, while at the same time I feel the stirrings of an erection, something that I thought was impossible for someone in my condition.

I am so going to hell.


End file.
